第11部分

請關閉瀏覽器的閱讀/暢讀/小說模式並且關閉廣告遮蔽過濾功能，避免出現內容無法顯示或者段落錯亂。

mily　or　out。　I　want　my　energies　and　my　earnings　for　people　who　talk　my　language。　。　想看書來

弗朗西斯·菲茨傑拉德致女兒（4）

I　have　begun　to　fear　that　you　don't。　You　don't　realize　that　what　I　am　doing　here　is　the　last　tired　effort　of　a　man　who　once　did　something　finer　and　better。　There　is　not　enough　energy；　or　call　it　money；　to　carry　anyone　who　is　dead　weight　and　I　am　angry　and　resentful　in　my　soul　when　I　feel　that　I　am　doing　this。　People　like—and　your　mother　must　be　carried　because　their　illness　makes　them　useless。　But　it　is　a　different　story　that　you　have　spent　two　years　doing　no　useful　work　at　all；　improving　neither　your　body　nor　your　mind；　but　only　writing　reams　and　reams　of　dreary　letters　to　dreary　people；　with　no　possible　object　except　obtaining　invitations　which　you　could　not　accept。　Those　letters　go　on；　even　in　your　sleep；　so　that　I　know　your　whole　trip　now　is　one　long　waiting　for　the　post。　It　is　like　an　old　gossip　who　cannot　still　her　tongue。

You　have　reached　the　age　when　one　is　of　interest　to　an　adult　only　insofar　as　one　seems　to　have　a　future。　The　mind　of　a　little　child　is　fascinating；　for　it　looks　on　old　things　with　new　eyes—but　at　about　twelve　this　changes。　The　adolescent　offers　nothing；　can　do　nothing；　say　nothing　that　the　adult　cannot　do　better。　Living　with　you　in　Baltimore（and　you　have　told　Harold　that　I　alternated　between　strictness　and　neglect；　by　which　I　suppose　you　mean　the　times　I　was　so　inconsiderate　as　to　have　T。　B。　o　or　to　retire　into　myself　to　write；　for　I　had　little　social　life　apart　from　you）　represented　a　rather　too　domestic　duty　forced　on　me　by　your　mother's　illness。　But　I　endured　your　Top　Hats　and　Telephones　until　the　day　you　snubbed　me　at　dancing　school；　less　willingly　after　that…

To　sum　up：　What　you　have　done　to　please　me　or　make