"We drove through pinewoods heavy with lichen and Spanish moss, and between the fallow cotton fields along a road white as the rim of the world. We parked under the broken shadow of a mill where there was the sound of running water and restive sqawky birds and over everything a brightness that tried to filter in anywhere. The South sang to us – I wonder if they remember. I remember – the cool pale faces, the somnolent amorous eyes and the voices: 'Are you comfortable?' 'Yes, are you?' 'Are you sure you are?' 'Yes.' Suddenly we knew it was late and there was nothing more. We turned home."
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, "The Last of the Belles," from "All the Sad Young Men."