Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

If only people could travel as easily as words. Wouldn’t that be something? If only we could be so easily revised.

Nothing except luck protects you from catastrophe. Not love. Not money. Not faith. Not a pure heart or good deeds—and not bad ones either, for that matter. We can, any of us, be laid low, cut down, diminished, destroyed.

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

He’s all words, no substance, I thought. Writers are probably like that.

plenty happens, but nothing happens.”