Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

by Therese Anne Fowler

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.

No evil dooms us hopelessly except the evil we love, and desire to continue in, and make no effort to escape from.

“False constrictions deny fulfillment of one’s talents,” Woolf claims, “and the world is poorer for it.”