mardi 22 juin 2010

Budd Schulberg, THE DISENCHANTED, Random House, New York, 1950

With no more dollars to cash in for francs, the expatriates were folding their manuscripts and quietly going home. It turned out even Hank had been drawing a modest income from some family investments; now he came in a little sheepishly to say he was going home. Everything was going to pieces. The word home had a strange sound on his Gallicized tongue. Hank had found a real home in Paris. Just as so much American writing had. Perhaps in the quick fever of the Twenties it had had no other. Yet, saying good-bye to Hank, he realized that he had never belonged to the literary Americans-in-Paris. He hadn't belonged to anything.
(p. 265)

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