Last night I went out to the bars with a bunch of the friends I've made here and it turned into dramafest supreme. Woke up this morning really bummed out about it, but then went shopping and got a cute flapper dress and went to the Samsung art museum with my aunt. Saw some Andy Warhol and some really sweet modern art installations, including one by Yoshimoto Nara of a cottage filled with drawings of all his characters (one of which is the picture above.) Cameras weren't allowed, but I snuck a couple of pictures anyway, I'll post them tomorrow maybe. Now instead of going out on a Saturday night I am drunk in my little humid room finishing up a Moveable Feast. There is a lovely passage Hemingway writes about Scott Fitzgerald I thought I'd share.
" His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a buttefly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless."
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