Under
the moon the back lot was thirty acres of fairyland–not
because the locations really looked like African jungles and French
châteaux and schooners at anchor and Broadway at night, but
because they looked like the torn picture books of childhood, like
fragments of stories dancing in an open fire. I never lived in a
house with an attic, but a back lot must be something like that,
and at night of course in an enchanted distorted way, it all comes
true.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Last Tycoon (1939), II, 25
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