One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes the size of a pin-prick, but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year. But if we should there is nothing could be done about it.
Tender is the Night
F. Scott Fitzgerald
1934
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Esther Bubley
Third Avenue 1951
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