In A Moveable Feast, in just three sentences, Ernest Hemingway describes F. Scott Fitzgerald's writing genius and the demons that plagued him. He paints his friend's talent as precarious, almost accidental, and short-lived (the pattern made by the dust on a butterfly's wing). And he recounts that when Scott Fitzgerald became aware of it, it abandoned him mercilessly, leaving him in the cold comfort of glorious memories.
“His [Scott Fitzgerald's] talent was as natural as the pattern made by the dust on a butterfly’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.”
from A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway