"I spent to-day in the grave-yard-- It really isn't a cemetery, you know, trying to unlock a rusty iron vault built in the side of the hill. It's all washed and covered with weepy, watery blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes--sticky to touch with a sickening odor . . . Why should graves make people feel in vain? I've heard so much . . . but somehow I can't find anything hopeless in having lived-- All the broken columns and clasped hands and doves and angels mean romances-- and in a hundred years I think I shall like having young people speculate on whether my eyes were brown or blue . . . I hope my grave has an air of many, many years ago about it-- Isn't it funny how, out of a row of Confederate soldiers, two or three will make you think of dead lovers and dead loves-- when they're exactly like the others, even to the yellowish moss?"
--from a letter by Zelda Fitzgerald