Here's an example from Fitzgerald - a scene that could be described this way:
Anthony and Gloria caught a cab. They drove through the city at night, passing the tall buildings. He kissed her. She let him.But this is how Fitzgerald describes it:
A cab yawned at the curb. As it moved off like a boat on a labyrinthine ocean and lost itself among the inchoate night masses of great buildings, among the now stilled, now strident, cries and clangings, Anthony put his arm around the girl, drew her over to him and kissed her damp, childish mouth.
She was silent. She turned her face up to him, pale under the wisps and patches of light that trailed in like moonshine through foliage. Her eyes were gleaming ripples in the white lake of her face; the shadows of her hair bordered the brow with a persuasive unintimate dusk. ...
Such a kiss - it was a flower held against the face, never to be described, scarcely to be remembered; as though her beauty itself were giving off emanations of itself which settled transiently and already dissolving upon his heart.As my husband Sam pointed out, Hemingway probably would've wanted to punch Fitzgerald in the throat. I, on the other hand, find this level of writing makes me both excruciatingly jealous (If only I wrote half so well!) and utterly inspired.
Who are the writers that have this effect on you, that capture ineffable moments and make them, well, effable?
(By the way, in case your wondering, "inchoate" means "not fully formed" or "still developing" - apt for the night images of the buildings and for the relationship between Gloria and Anthony.)