Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are? —T. S. Eliot

“There’s a war, in case you haven’t heard. It might end up being now and then never.

“Marry me, Zelda. We’ll make it all up as we go.

this will end SO badly. already crying.

I was eighteen years old; I was impatient; I decided, Never mind waiting for the wind. Around three A.M. I crept downstairs and placed a phone call to Scott’s quarters. When he came to the phone, I said, “You’ll make it worth my while, right?” “And then some.”

I could give the most detailed examinations of my characters, but then couldn’t seem to make them do anything interesting.

Have another glass of champagne and tell me more.”

Ludlow said, “What has he sold this time?” “Nothing yet,” I said sorrowfully. Scott frowned. “This woman has no faith in me.” Ludlow declared, “This woman has too much faith in you.” “This woman needs a fur coat,” I said.

And if I said something like “If I never see another snowflake, it’ll be too soon, I swear!” someone was sure to ask, “Is ahswayah a Southern term? I don’t think we have that one here.”

Peggy a whole lot of good advice that she put to work in a novel, The Love Legend, which Scott recommended to Max Perkins and which Max had just agreed to publish.

Mary Blair, an actress, of all things—brought

Wait: if I leave it at that, it’ll sound like the novel’s disappointing performance is to blame for the disaster we made of our lives, and that’s not really so. Ernest Hemingway is to blame.

“This Hemingway fellow’s prose has force, though. You can’t argue with that.” I said, “Hammers have force, too, but they’re pretty limited in what they’re good for.”

“You don’t understand, Zelda, and you never will because your life is nothing but a series of low-risk amusements.

“Wem, meet Scott Fitzgerald. Scott, this pup’s named Ernest Hemingway. Can you imagine such a name? It’s ludicrous.

“He’s a real sport, your husband. Gifted. Lucky. Soused, I should add. He’s right now holding court on the bar—note that I say on and not at or even in.” “My English teachers always did stress the importance of prepositions.”

sharp pain woke me from a dream in which I’d been arguing with Alice’s Mad Hatter about whether cloche hats were still in style. (Feathers! he’d kept shouting. Brims!)

Hemingway wrote a nasty little “satire” of our good friend Sherwood Anderson’s book (his own first mentor, I should add!) and insists that whichever publisher wins him for the “highly serious novel” he’s writing about bullshit—I mean bullfighting—must also agree to publish this other book, Torrents of Spring.

I listened to the band; sure enough, they were playing “Kiss Me Again,” which I’d heard on the radio and loved.