I am on track, or so it appears, for 2018 to be a more productive year blogpost-wise than 2017. In all of 2017 I created 71 posts and with two-and-a-half months to go in 2018 I have already created 66 of them. Of course, in 2008, a whole decade ago now, I created 228 blogposts, but we won't go there. Changing horses in midstream, I could die tomorrow, and then where would that leave you?
High and dry, friends, high and dry.
I trust that will not happen, but one never knows, especially as one grows older.
Which all of us are doing, n'est-ce pas?
But of course.
There is no other way. No going back. Only forward.
Unless you are F. Scott Fitzgerald, whose novel The Great Gatsby ends with Nick, the narrator, contemplating Long Island, thusly:
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Tell me in the comments who you are not.
Showing posts with label F. Scott Fitzgerald. Show all posts
Showing posts with label F. Scott Fitzgerald. Show all posts
Friday, October 19, 2018
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
A worrisome thing that leads you to sing the blues in the night
Let us now praise famous men shift our attention from blue boys and blue periods to the American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1896 and died in Hollywood, California, in 1940. He wrote five novels
(one of them is The Great Gatsby and the other four aren’t, and one of them wasn’t published until after his death) and several collections of short stories (one of them contains the story “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and the others don’t, and one of them wasn't published until -- déjà vu -- after his death).
Fitzgerald’s American credentials were pretty impressive. His second cousin, three times removed, was Francis Scott Key, the chap who is remembered for having written “The Star-Spangled Banner” (although its original title was “Defence of Fort McHenry”) in 1814; and his first cousin, once removed, was Mary Surratt, a woman hanged in 1865 for conspiring to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.
Before we look at one of his works, first you must read this entire article to get a flavor of his life and to understand better what you will be reading later. Then we will proceed.
Finished already?
Today we are going to look at “The Crack-Up”, a series of three non-fiction articles that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in 1936, late in his career.
Because I like them, that’s why, and this is my blog, after all.
If anyone could be called blue, it was F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1936. His wife Zelda had been admitted to a mental institution and he had not yet met his lover, gossip columnist Sheilah Graham. [Editor’s note. For extra credit, read this. --RWP]
“The Crack-Up” appeared in Esquire magazine in the February, March, and April 1936 issues as a series of three articles. Only the first article was entitled “The Crack-Up” originally. The second article was entitled “Pasting It Together” and the third article was entitled “Handle With Care”.
I know this is a lot of reading for one day, but you will be the better for it.
Here are all three parts of “The Crack-Up”.
One last thing:
This is not Zelda Fitzgerald, nor is it Sheilah Graham.
This is Mary Surratt.
Now maybe you’ll go read that Fitzgerald novel you’ve been meaning to get around to.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1896 and died in Hollywood, California, in 1940. He wrote five novels
(one of them is The Great Gatsby and the other four aren’t, and one of them wasn’t published until after his death) and several collections of short stories (one of them contains the story “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and the others don’t, and one of them wasn't published until -- déjà vu -- after his death).
Fitzgerald’s American credentials were pretty impressive. His second cousin, three times removed, was Francis Scott Key, the chap who is remembered for having written “The Star-Spangled Banner” (although its original title was “Defence of Fort McHenry”) in 1814; and his first cousin, once removed, was Mary Surratt, a woman hanged in 1865 for conspiring to assassinate Abraham Lincoln.
Before we look at one of his works, first you must read this entire article to get a flavor of his life and to understand better what you will be reading later. Then we will proceed.
Finished already?
Today we are going to look at “The Crack-Up”, a series of three non-fiction articles that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in 1936, late in his career.
Because I like them, that’s why, and this is my blog, after all.
If anyone could be called blue, it was F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1936. His wife Zelda had been admitted to a mental institution and he had not yet met his lover, gossip columnist Sheilah Graham. [Editor’s note. For extra credit, read this. --RWP]
“The Crack-Up” appeared in Esquire magazine in the February, March, and April 1936 issues as a series of three articles. Only the first article was entitled “The Crack-Up” originally. The second article was entitled “Pasting It Together” and the third article was entitled “Handle With Care”.
I know this is a lot of reading for one day, but you will be the better for it.
Here are all three parts of “The Crack-Up”.
One last thing:
This is not Zelda Fitzgerald, nor is it Sheilah Graham.
This is Mary Surratt.
Now maybe you’ll go read that Fitzgerald novel you’ve been meaning to get around to.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives, or Thoughts On My Seventy-second Birthday
1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
...14, 15, 16, 17...
...25, 26, 27, 28, 29...
...38, 39, 40, 41, 42...
(yawn)...
...59, 60, 61, 62, 63...
...71, 72.
Seventy-two.
SEVENTY-TWO???!!
It can’t be!
Where did the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I graduated from high school.
It seems like just yesterday I got married.
It seems like just yesterday I watched my children playing.
It seems like just yesterday I became a grandfather.
My oldest grandson is now six feet, two inches tall and 17 years old.
Where did the time go?
It went where it always goes. It marches on.
And there’s not one blessed thing we can do about it.
Shakespeare talked about the seven ages of man in As You Like It, Act Two, scene seven. You know, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms and so forth all the way to second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. I know the drill; I figure I’m at about stage six out of the seven, which I’ll let you look up for yourself, and it’s no comfort, let me tell you.
Dylan Thomas told us, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
That is definitely one approach. But I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best at the end of The Great Gatsby:
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
It’s not that I’m raging against the dying of the light or that I enjoy being borne back ceaselessly into the past particularly, it’s just that I can’t believe how soon this life is all over. I may live another 20 or 30 years, but still:
The doctor is IN. I recommend reading Psalm 103 every single day.
I also like to read Neil Theasby’s poem over there in my sidebar occasionally of an evening.
[Editor’s aside to Neil: You definitely now owe me. I have included you in an auspicious group that includes William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. --RWP]
...14, 15, 16, 17...
...25, 26, 27, 28, 29...
...38, 39, 40, 41, 42...
(yawn)...
...59, 60, 61, 62, 63...
...71, 72.
Seventy-two.
SEVENTY-TWO???!!
It can’t be!
Where did the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I graduated from high school.
It seems like just yesterday I got married.
It seems like just yesterday I watched my children playing.
It seems like just yesterday I became a grandfather.
My oldest grandson is now six feet, two inches tall and 17 years old.
Where did the time go?
It went where it always goes. It marches on.
And there’s not one blessed thing we can do about it.
Shakespeare talked about the seven ages of man in As You Like It, Act Two, scene seven. You know, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms and so forth all the way to second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. I know the drill; I figure I’m at about stage six out of the seven, which I’ll let you look up for yourself, and it’s no comfort, let me tell you.
Dylan Thomas told us, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
That is definitely one approach. But I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best at the end of The Great Gatsby:
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
It’s not that I’m raging against the dying of the light or that I enjoy being borne back ceaselessly into the past particularly, it’s just that I can’t believe how soon this life is all over. I may live another 20 or 30 years, but still:
The doctor is IN. I recommend reading Psalm 103 every single day.
I also like to read Neil Theasby’s poem over there in my sidebar occasionally of an evening.
[Editor’s aside to Neil: You definitely now owe me. I have included you in an auspicious group that includes William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. --RWP]
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