Nate Briggs's Blog - Posts Tagged "literature"
Sunday Literary Life: Feb 26
Quality Time with Scott n'Zelda
For quite a few years Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald have been the gift that keeps on giving for authors of both fiction and non-fiction: with perhaps most works about the couple suggesting that, when we talk about them, we’re talking about something called Romance (capital “R”, of course).
The fact that their relationship had elements of something other than Romance is confirmed by the teams supporting one side or the other.
There are at least two full-length biographies of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald in print. Pretty remarkable for a woman who only wrote one book – and spent the last third of her life institutionalized. But the feminist voices supporting Team Zelda are pretty strident.
This inventive essay, for example: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/…/zelda...…. (Reminding me of a character in PG Wodehouse who insists that Emily and Charlotte Bronte stole all their published work from their drunken brother, Branwell, cheating him of recognition).
Team Scott also has some raised voices: among them Ernest Hemingway, who declared Zelda to be “insane” in print, and – in retrospect – judged that Scott never had the time to explore how much literary talent he had because he was too busy churning out commercial boilerplate to keep up with Zelda’s pathological spending.
Thus we have two teams. And here we have two novels: “Save Me the Waltz” published by Scribner’s in 1932 – and “Tender Is the Night”, offered by the same publisher in 1934.
Despite statements by Zelda to the contrary, both writers were drawing water from the same well (their time in Europe in the 1920’s) – and Scott was furious that his wife had gotten there first. “Tender Is the Night” took him nine long, grinding, desperate years: during which he probably rewrote the book, from the ground up, more than once.
Zelda wrote her book in a surge of literary ejaculation: finishing her manuscript in six weeks. Getting back to team spirit, maybe we can guess who stole what from who.
His(story), and her(story). In many ways, the same story, with the same elements: the hollow idleness of enormous wealth - the means to go anywhere linked to the feeling that it’s just the same people everywhere – expatriate life as a kind of penance – brittle displays of wit – sexual frustration and blunted aspirations – and, at root, a marriage slowly melting like an ice cube in a morning cocktail.
Here at the beginning of the Big Fitzgerald Project I wanted to read both books: to get an impression of what the team leaders of Team Scott and Team Zelda had to say in the devastated calm of the 1930’s when they both started to realize that during their time as Socially-Certified Crazies they had been more of a spectacle than respected - and started to suspect that all of the strange chemicals they had consumed over ice in Prohibition-era America might have damaged them for good.
And, of course, by the 1930’s, they had run out of money. In the crazy years they had gone through immense sums like a house afire. So it’s no wonder that both these books have a lingering taste of ashes.
For quite a few years Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald have been the gift that keeps on giving for authors of both fiction and non-fiction: with perhaps most works about the couple suggesting that, when we talk about them, we’re talking about something called Romance (capital “R”, of course).
The fact that their relationship had elements of something other than Romance is confirmed by the teams supporting one side or the other.
There are at least two full-length biographies of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald in print. Pretty remarkable for a woman who only wrote one book – and spent the last third of her life institutionalized. But the feminist voices supporting Team Zelda are pretty strident.
This inventive essay, for example: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/…/zelda...…. (Reminding me of a character in PG Wodehouse who insists that Emily and Charlotte Bronte stole all their published work from their drunken brother, Branwell, cheating him of recognition).
Team Scott also has some raised voices: among them Ernest Hemingway, who declared Zelda to be “insane” in print, and – in retrospect – judged that Scott never had the time to explore how much literary talent he had because he was too busy churning out commercial boilerplate to keep up with Zelda’s pathological spending.
Thus we have two teams. And here we have two novels: “Save Me the Waltz” published by Scribner’s in 1932 – and “Tender Is the Night”, offered by the same publisher in 1934.
Despite statements by Zelda to the contrary, both writers were drawing water from the same well (their time in Europe in the 1920’s) – and Scott was furious that his wife had gotten there first. “Tender Is the Night” took him nine long, grinding, desperate years: during which he probably rewrote the book, from the ground up, more than once.
Zelda wrote her book in a surge of literary ejaculation: finishing her manuscript in six weeks. Getting back to team spirit, maybe we can guess who stole what from who.
His(story), and her(story). In many ways, the same story, with the same elements: the hollow idleness of enormous wealth - the means to go anywhere linked to the feeling that it’s just the same people everywhere – expatriate life as a kind of penance – brittle displays of wit – sexual frustration and blunted aspirations – and, at root, a marriage slowly melting like an ice cube in a morning cocktail.
Here at the beginning of the Big Fitzgerald Project I wanted to read both books: to get an impression of what the team leaders of Team Scott and Team Zelda had to say in the devastated calm of the 1930’s when they both started to realize that during their time as Socially-Certified Crazies they had been more of a spectacle than respected - and started to suspect that all of the strange chemicals they had consumed over ice in Prohibition-era America might have damaged them for good.
And, of course, by the 1930’s, they had run out of money. In the crazy years they had gone through immense sums like a house afire. So it’s no wonder that both these books have a lingering taste of ashes.
