Today I finished
Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda - the letters between Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. And gosh darn, if this book hasn't made me sad.
F. Scott Fitzgerald made me love literature, I think; I always loved reading, but it was only reading The Great Gatsby at school that got me into the real good shit. Most of what I have read since then has come from there - exploring writers he was contemporary with, or mentions (like the awesome Ring Lardner), or influenced him, or who he influenced - and then spreading out from there. Scott's perhaps been overtaken by other writers but hey, he was first, and I intend to go back soon and re-read him. 'The Beautiful and Damned' is great.
I've read biographies of both Scott and Zelda before and become very familiar with their tragedy. I hadn't read much of their correspondence before.
This volume comes from the standpoint that I personally subscribe to; that no one was to blame for ill treatment of the other. Scott gets quite a bashing in popular telling for his treatment of Zelda but the currents run real deep. And in the last ten years of their letters to each other, it's nothing other than just painful.
Zelda is unstable and unaware and shipped from institution to institution, because psychiatry didn't have the knowledge to treat her then. Scott is drunk and ill and trying to pay for everything while watching his talent drift away. It's nobody's fault, it's all too sadly inevitable. The last year is especially poignant, they both sound close to breaking their duck: Zelda at her mother's, writing of the weather and resuming a social life, Scott in Hollywood, making enough money to write for three more months and keep their daughter at university and he's off the bottle.
Even knowing how it ends, you begin to root for them - I saw a hopefulness in their last years that I haven't seen explored before. I began looking at how many pages could be left in the book, thinking where the end must come, and then it comes - just as 'The Last Tycoon' is progressing, just as Zelda is resuming a regular life, just as they're planning a reunion, and just before Christmas, Scott stands up and has a heart attack and that much is that much, for both of them.
There ends today's book report. But really - I wish the question of their lives would move on from apportioning blame one way or another. The whole thing is too sad, and so far beyond a simple equation regarding 'fault'.
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I've started some Swedish shocker novel called '491'. The paperback has a card insert demanding whether you want to read other books about the real underground. The pack of young delinquents it depicts have already fulfilled one cliche by having one young man do the knife-between-fingers game, but it's picked up a touch lately with a strange scene regarding a piano.