Product Details. Average Review. Write a Review. Related Searches. Broken Whole: A Memoir. At the age of thirty-five, desperate to salvage a self that has been suffocating for She has no plan View Product. This haunting yet wry coming-of-age memoir set at an all-girls summer camp fast-forwards decades into Happier at Work: The Power of Love to.
The American workplace has become toxic to mental, emotional, and physical health. A book for A book for our complex and challenging times, Happier at Work offers a practical path for leaders and employees to shift a culture of fear and reactivity to Hysterical: Anna Freud's Story. Young Anna Freud is sexually attracted to other girls. She described him exclusively in terms of what he was and did. She said he was a man without fear—intellectual, silent, serious. When I was a child their relationship was not apparent to me.
Now I see them as two unhappy people: my mother dominated and oppressed by my father, and often hurt by him, he forced to work for a large family in which he found neither satisfaction nor a spiritual link. Neither of them complained. Her sisters were pretty; she quarreled with them constantly. My marriage, after which I was in another world, one for which I was not qualified or prepared, because of my inadequate education.
A love affair with a french aviator in St Raphael. I was locked in my villa for one month to prevent me from seeing him. This lasted for five years. When I knew my husband had another woman in California I was upset because the life over there appeared to me so superficial, but finally I was not hurt because I knew I had done the same thing when I was younger. I determined to find an impersonal escape, a world in which 1 could express myself and walk without the help of somebody who was always far from me.
I had begun dancing in Paris, with a great ballet dancer, but I was obliged to leave her because of my illness… When I returned to Paris I went again into the same school. I began to understand it. Suddenly last spring I began to see all red while I worked or I saw no colors— I could not bear to look out of windows, for sometimes I saw humanity as a bottle of ants. Then we left for Cannes where I worked on technique and where after the lessons I had the impression that I was an old person living very quietly in winter. I loved my ballet teacher in Paris more than anything else in the world.
But I did not know how. She had everything of beauty in her head, the brightness of a greek temple, the frustration of a mind searching for a place, the glory of cannon bullets; all that 1 saw in her steps. From Christinas on I was not able to work correctly anymore, but she helped me to learn more, to go further. She always told me to look after myself. I tried to, but it was worse. I left my lessons, but without them I could not do anything.
It was Easter, I wanted to do something for my little girl, but I could not stop in a shop and Madame came to encourage me. Enough to give me the strength to go to Malmaison. There the doctors told me that I was well and I came back to the studio, unable to walk in the streets, full of medicine, trying to work in an atmosphere which was becoming more and more strange… My husband forced me to go to Valmont—and now I am here, with you, in a situation where I cannot be anybody, full of vertigo, with an increasing noise in my ears, feeling the vibrations of everyone I meet.
Broken down. I am dependent on my husband, and he told me that I must get cured.follow site
Class Letters: Instilling Intangible Lessons through Letters by Claire Lopez
Life, beauty or death, all that is equal for me. I must add another thing: this story is the fault of nobody but me. I believed I was a Salamander [Zelda may have been referring to the mythical salamander, which was able to live in fire and endure it without harm. After Perkins had seen them he wrote Scott,. But they are for a selected audience, and not a large one, and the magazine thinks that on that account, they cannot use them. One would think that if she did enough more they might make a book. Descriptively they are very rare, and the description is not just description. It has a curious emotional content in itself.
But for the present 1 shall have to send them back to Ober. I think one of the little magazines might use them.
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I wish we could. I am terribly sorry about Zelda herself. But if she has made progress maybe it should become more rapid, and everything will come out right. One of them, I think now, would be incomprehensible without a waste-land footnote. She has those series of eight portraits that attracted so much attention in College Humor and … I think a book might be got together for next spring if Zelda can add a few more during winter.
But that was wishful thinking, for Zelda was not able to concentrate on anything consistently throughout the rest of the summer and fall of , so completely was she in the relentless grip of the eczema. She wrote Scott:. Please Please let me out now— Dear, you used to love me and I swear to you that this is no use. You must have seen. You said it was too good to spoil. She wrote desperately to him:. In September the eczema had grown worse and Dr. Forel tried a completely different and experimental approach. He hypnotized Zelda and the results were dramatic.
Zelda fell into a deep hypnotic sleep that lasted for thirteen hours and when she awoke the eczema was almost completely gone. It was to reappear again, but in a milder form. Immediately after the treatment Zelda told him that she had felt the eczema oozing in her trance, and she added that she thought there was a link between the eczema and her psychological condition. When she felt normal and realized the danger in her conjugal conflicts the eczema appeared.
It came, she thought, as a sort of warning device. Her behavior toward Scott vacillated between being loving and being nasty. She was impulsively affectionate at moments when Scott least expected it, yet she might turn on him as he responded to her affection. Looking at the letters which she wrote to Scott during the autumn, one catches the wild fluctuations of her moods. Scott was to incorporate portions of these letters into Tender Is the Night to indicate the progress of the relationship between Nicole and Doctor Dick Diver.
However, one notices that even among the latter letters there were often currents of strangeness. She seemed now to need to express her dependence upon Scott, as though it was proof of her sanity. I woke up this morning and the sun was lying like a birth-day parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings like a school-mistress.
My dear—. And I will be very sad if we have to have two rooms. Are you sort of feeling aimless, surprised, and looking rather reproachful that no melo-drama comes to pass when your work is over— as if you [had] ridden very hard with a message to save your army and found the enemy had decided not to attack—the way you sometimes feel —or are you just a darling little boy with a holiday on his hands in the middle of the week—the way you sometimes are—or are you organizing and dynamic and mending things—the way you sometimes are—.
Dear— Good-night— Dear—dear dear dear dear dear dear Dear dear dear dear dear dear Dear dear dear dear dear dear Dear dear dear dear dear dear Dear dear dear dear dear dear dear… [etc. When she was left alone during the day she daydreamed, and she was unresponsive to questions put directly to her. She appeared dull and expressionless. Forel began to fear organic brain damage. By the 10th of November, , the eczema had reappeared and Zelda grew worse.
Forel transferred Zelda once again to the Eglantine. Scott considered this to be a major setback and he was dissatisfied with the progress of her treatment. On the 22nd Dr. Forel called in Dr. Paul Eugen Bleuler for consultation. Bleuler was a distinguished authority on psychosis specifically schizophrenia, which he had named in Europe at that time. Forel says he called in Bleuler to clear his own diagnosis. It was extremely important that he arrive at a correct diagnosis, for the treatment depended upon it.
It was a great help to discuss this difficult patient with Bleuler. Fitzgerald is more intuitive than intelligent, more brilliant than cultivated. Scott wrote Judge and Mrs. Sayre telling them of the consultation with Bleuler. Bleuler spent an afternoon with Zelda and the evening with Forel and Scott. Let us hope it is only a process of re-adjustment. Stop blaming yourself. Fitzgerald loved and married the artist in Mr. Once Scott took up residence in Lausanne he began to see Zelda for brief visits once every two or three weeks as Dr.
Bleuler had re-commended. He planned to visit Scottie in Paris once a month for four or five days. It was best for her to remain in Paris and continue her schooling there among her friends. Zelda was not able to write often and her letters to her daughter were therefore few. Her world was not comprehensible to a child and Zelda must have realized how distant she had become from Scottie. She wrote that she wanted Scottie to continue her dancing lessons:. It is excellent to create grace and interest in the arts and I was not pleased that you had to stop, and I hope in the spring you will be capable of going on again as you did before— The saddest thing in my life is that I was no good at it having begun so late—but thats only an excuse on my part, as you have easily guessed I suppose.
The very style of their life together was conducive to instability; they had lived hard amidst increasing disorder. It was necessary for Scott to try to comprehend in the most personal terms the calamity that had befallen them. In order to do that He had to write about it. It is not simply a recapitulation, but the cri de coeur of a man who while wounding had been himself deeply wounded. I know this then—that those days when we came up from the south, from Capri [February-March, ; Scott had completed Gatsby in November, ], were among my happiest—but you were sick and the happiness was not in the home.
I had been unhappy for a long time then—when my play failed a year and a half before, when I worked so hard for a year twelve stories and novel and four articles in that time with no one believing in me and no one to see except you and before the end your heart betraying me and then I was really alone with no one I liked. In Rome we were dismal and [I] was still working proof and three more stories and in Capri you were sick and there seemed to be nothing left of happiness in the world anywhere I looked. I met Gerald and Sara who took us for friends now and Ernest who was an equal and my kind of an idealist.
I got drunk with him on the Left Bank in careless cafes and drank with Sara and Gerald in their garden in St Cloud but you were endlessly sick and at home everything was unhappy. We went to Antibes and I was happy but you were sick still and all that fall and that winter and spring at the cure and I was alone all the time and I had to get drunk before I could leave you so sick and not care and I was only happy a little while before I got too drunk.
Afterwards there were all the usual penalties for being drunk. Finally you got well in Juan-les-Pins and a lot of money came in and I made [one] of those mistakes literary men make—I thought I was a man of the world—that everybody liked me and admired me for myself but I only liked a few people like Ernest and Gerald and Charlie McArthur and Sara who were my peers. Time goes bye fast in those moods and nothing is ever done. I woke up in Hollywood no longer my egotistic, certain self but a mixture of Ernest in fine clothes and Gerald with a career—and Charlie McArthur with a past. Anybody that could make me believe that, like Lois Moran did, was precious to me.
Ellerslie, the polo people and Mrs. Chanler, the party for Cecilia were all attempts to make up from without lor being undernourished now from within. Anything to be liked, to be reassured not that I was a man of little genius but that I was a great man of the world. At the same time I knew it was nonsense—the part of me that knew it was nonsense brought us to the Rue Vaugirard.
But now you had gone into yourself just as 1 had four years before in St. Somewhere in there I had a sense of being exploited, not by you but by something I resented terribly no happiness. Certainly less than these had ever been at home—you were a phantom washing clothes… I remember desolate trips to Versaille to Phienis, to LaBaule undertaken in sheer weariness of home.
I remember wondering why I kept working to pay the bills of this desolate menage I had evolved. In despair I went from the extreme of isolation, which is to say isolation with D———, or the Ritz Bar where I got back my self esteem for half an hour, often with someone I had hardly ever seen before. On the evenings sometimes you and I rode to the Bois in a cab—after awhile I preferred to go to Cafe de Lilas and sit there alone remembering what a happy time I had had there with Ernest, Hadley, Dorothy Parker and Benchley two years before.
I complained when the house got unbearable but after all I was not John Peale Bishop—I was paying for it with work, that I passionately hated and found more and more difficult to do. The novel was like a dream, daily farther and farther away. Ellerslie was better and worse. Unhappiness is less acute when one lives with a certain sober dignity but the financial strain was too much.
Between Sept when we left Paris and March when we reached Nice we were living at the rate of forty thousand a year. But somehow I felt happier. Another Spring— I would see Ernest whom I had launched, Gerald and Sarah who through my agency had been able to try the movies. At least life would [seem] less drab: there would be parties with people who offered something, conversations with people with something to say.
Later swimming and getting tanned and young and being near the sea. Ernest and I met but it was a more irritable Ernest, apprehensively telling me his whereabouts lest I come in on them tight and endanger his precarious lease. I worked there too, though, and the unusual combination exploded my lungs.
Usually it was a pretext to cover his drinking. And because he was something of a hypochondriac it is difficult to decide if he suffered from tuberculosis to the degree that he thought he did. According to his biographer Arthur Mizener, Scott did suffer a mild attack in You were gone now—I scarcely remember you that summer.
You were simply one of all the people who disliked me or were indifferent to me. Things were always the same. The appartments that were rotten, the maids that stank—the ballet before my eyes, spoiling a story to take the Troubetskoys to dinner, poisening a trip to Africa. You were going crazy and calling it genius—I was going to ruin and calling it anything that came to hand. And I think everyone far enough away to see us outside of our glib presentations of ourselves guessed at your almost meglomaniacal selfishness and my insane indulgence in drink.
Toward the end nothing much mattered. The nearest I ever came to leaving you was when you told me you [thought] that I was a fairy in the Rue Palatine but now whatever you said aroused a sort of detached pity for you. For all your superior observation and your harder intelligence I have a faculty of guessing right, without evidence even with a certain wonder as to why and whence that mental short cut came. I wish the Beautiful and Damned had been a maturely written book because it was all true.
We ruined ourselves— I have never honestly thought that we ruined each other. The letter breaks off here, incomplete. Zelda was in even less of a position to cope with the fissures within their marriage than Scott. Your letter is not difficult to answer with promptitude since I have done nothing but turn over cause and effect in my mind for some time. Also your presentation of the situation is poetic, even if it has no bearing on the truth: your working to preserve the family and my working to get away from it. If you so refer to giving your absolute minimum of effort both to your work and to our mutual welfare with no hope or plans for the future save the vague capricices which drive you from one place to another, 1 envy you the mental processes which can so distort conditions into a rectitude of attitude for you.
You have always told me that I had no right to complain as long as I was materially cared for, so take whatever comfort you may find in whatever self justification you can construct. Also, I quite understand the restless dissatisfaction which drives you from existing conditions since I have been through it myself, even to the point of being completely dependent on a mentality which had neither the desire nor the necessity of touching mine for the small crumbs of beauty that I found I must have to continue.
This is not a treatise of recriminations, but I would like you to understand clearly why there are certain scenes not only toward the end which could never be effaced from my mind. I am here, and since I have no choice, I will try to mister the grace to rest peacefully as I should, but our divergence is too great as you must realize for us to ever be anything except a hash to-gether and since we have never found either help or satisfaction in each other the best thing is to seek it separately.
You might as well start whatever you start for a divorce immediately. Some justification has always been imperative to me, and 1 could never function simply from the necessity for functioning not even to save myself as the King of Greece once told Ernest Hemmingway was the most important thing of all as you so illuminatingly told me. You will have all the things you want without me, and I will find something. You will have some nice girl who will not care about the things that I cared about and you will be happier.
For us, there is not the slightest use, even if we wanted to try which I assure you I do not— not even faintly. In Paris, I hope you will get Scottie out of the city heat now that she has finished school. I am tired of rummaging my head to understand a situation that would be difficult enough if I were completely lucid. I cannot arbitrarily accept blame now when I know that in the past I felt none. Exalted sophistries are not much of a prop.
Why do I have to go backwards when everybody else who can goes on? Christmas, the nightmare darkened. Although Zelda had asked to see Scottie, she behaved badly when confronted by her, breaking the ornaments on their tree and talking incoherently. Scott took Scottie skiing at Gstaad to try to mitigate what must have been a painful and upsetting scene for the child. Deeply sorrowful at the loss, he planned to return to America immediately for the funeral. Before he left there was a final meeting with Zelda. In his detailed report to Dr. Forel, he said that, although a first-year medical student could phrase it better than he could, he had a theory about Zelda which he wished to put forth.
He then plotted the course of her illness in outline form from age fifteen to the present. In brief my idea is this. That the eczema is not relative but is the clue to the whole business. Scott felt that Zelda needed some intense form of physical activity to aid her in the cure. Her poor eyesight and her highly developed artistic sense made embroidery, carpentry, and bookbinding insufficiently involving; nor were these activities, he felt certain, any real substitute for sweating.
He said she literally clung to him for an hour. Then she went into the other personality and was awful to me at lunch. After lunch she returned to the affectionate tender mood, utterly normal, so that with pressure I could have manoeuvred her into intercourse but the eczema was almost visibly increasing so I left early.
Toward the very end she was back in the schizophrania. Zelda realized that their meeting had not been satisfactory and wrote him a note in an effort to reach him before he was at sea. With Scott in America Zelda suddenly began to improve. She ate her meals at the table regularly with the other patients, and the odd little smile which had uncontrollably marked her expression from the beginning of her illness disappeared. She also began to ski every day at nearby St. Cergues when the snow was good. There were photographs taken of her smiling happily in her chamois jacket, her hair flying.
It was as if the skiing itself were an indication that the tide of her illness had turned in her favor. Scott had guessed right when he said that she needed physical exercise. She also apparently needed distance from him. The Judge was ill with the flu, and the visit was only a partial success.
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It did, however, serve to reassure Mrs. As the spring passed it became clear that Zelda had definitely improved. The tone of her letters changed and her relationship to Scott was slowly evolving into one more loving and less charged with bitterness and recrimination. She thought back on good times they had shared together. I would like to be walking alone in a Sirocco at Cannes at night passing under the dim lamps and imagining myself mysterious and unafraid like last summer—. At the end of the letter her tone changed into something other than poetic reminiscence, as if she were trying to ascertain what degree of change comparable to her own might have taken place in Scott.
I would like to be working—what would you like? Not work, I know, and not lone places. Would you like to be in New York with a play in rehearsal like you always said? It is not possible that you should really want to be in the hurry and disorder of the Ritz Bar and Mont Matre and the high excitability of scenes like the party we went to with McGowan where you passed so much of your time recently—. Throughout the spring and into June she and Scott were able to see more of one another without the side effects of eczema or irritation that their earlier meetings had provoked in Zelda.
It rained steadily on the lake now, and the dreariness of the days made her a little sad. Good-night, dear. If you were in my bed it might be the back of your head I was touching where the hair is short and mossy or it might be up in the front where it make[s] little caves about your forehead, but wherever it was it would be the sweetest place, the sweetest place. When they met now, there were day trips taken together at Lausanne and Geneva for shopping, or luncheons of hot chocolate and apricot tarts and whipped cream at the cafes.
When they could not meet, Zelda wrote to him telling him how she felt and what she was doing, and how much she missed him. And theres always my infinite love—You are a sweet person—the sweetest and dearest of all and I love you as I love my vanished youth— which is as much as a human heart can hold—. I know you would prefer something nice and feminine and affectionate.
She wants to see you, Gerald. It was a breakthrough. I remember telling him that of course I would go—and feeling absolutely terrified at the same time. Forel screened him carefully before letting him see Zelda. He explained what she had been through and cautioned Gerald against mentioning certain things that were known to upset her. I remember spotting her near a lovely old house—there was a fig tree near her and I noticed that she was watching me without seeming to do so. I had to cross the entire courtyard and that was the most God awful long walk that I have ever made.
She looked altered, distrait. I moved as calmly as I could and when I reached her I smiled and said that all my life I had wanted to make baskets like hers—great, heavy, stout baskets. Actually, I stayed less than five minutes with her, but it was a harrowing experience. I hope you know they are kisses splatterring you[r] balcony to-night from a lady who was once, in three separate letters, a princess in a high white tower and who has never forgotten her elevated station in life and who is waiting once more for her royal darling Good-night, honey—.
It was like the good gone times when we still believed in summer hotels and the philosophies of popular songs. My dearest and most precious Monsieur, We have here a kind of maniac who seems to have been inspired with erotic aberrations on your behalf. Apart from that she is a person of excellent character, willing to work, would accept a nominal salary while learning, fair complexion, green eyes would like correspondance with refined young man of your description with intent to marry.
Previous experience unnecessary. Very fond of family life and a wonderful pet to have in the home. Marked behind the left ear with a slight tendency to schitzoprenie. Toward the end of the summer Dr. Forel suggested that the Fitzgeralds take another trip together—a trial run so that Zelda might work her way back into society. The Murphys had taken up residence at an old manor house in the Austrian Tyrol; they likened it to a hunting lodge, with its sanded floors and white walls.
It was simple and solid and it stood amid beautiful fields of grain. As it was not far from Switzerland, the Fitzgeralds decided to visit them there. Zelda would be with people she liked, she could relax, and the atmosphere was both refreshing and calming. The Murphys had brought with them their nursemaid for their own three children. In the evening when it was time for their baths the nurse asked Scottie who was nearly ten if she wanted her bath as well. Scottie rebelled. It was cloudy and she ran and told her mother and father.
Zelda took it beautifully, but Scott—well, Scott behaved like a child, he made a great deal of fuss over the whole thing. Scott may also have been more worried than he let on about the tuberculosis of one of the Murphy sons. But we were stunned, we would never have dreamed of washing them all in the same water! Zelda had passed those various tests of her ability to cope with her life with Scott and her child.
She was now able to reassure Scott when he felt blue about their future together. Stop thinking about our marriage and your work and human relations—you are not a showman arranging an exhibit— You are a Sun-god with a wife who loves him and an artist—to take in, assimilate and all alterations to be strictly on paper—. On September 15, , after a year and three months of treatment, Zelda was released from Prangins. The Fitzgeralds motored directly to Paris and from there went on to board the Aquitania for the United States.
On a sunny day during the crossing, with Scottie playing shuffleboard next to them, Scott took a snapshot of Zelda sitting on a canvas deck chair. She is wearing sturdy low-heeled shoes and her hair is pushed back clumsily beneath a pale beret. She is smoking a cigarette and on her lap balances a large sketching pad.
She is not smiling, but scowls against the sun.
Class Letters: Instilling Intangible Lessons through Letters
She had lost her good looks and what remained was a face hardened by suffering and despair. They were considering settling in Montgomery, perhaps even buying a house. At last Scott would be able to return to his novel, which he had not touched thus far in , while Zelda set up housekeeping. Montgomery was a haven from the Depression, which seemed to have had no effect upon life there, and even the passage of time left the city unaltered.
It was, as usual, an improbable place, far too large for them. They hired a Negro couple to take care of housekeeping and cooking as well as the secondhand Stutz they had just bought. They acquired a white Persian cat, which they called Chopin, and a bloodhound, named Trouble. Life settled down to a quiet routine of football games, tennis, and golf, and visiting old friends.
Zelda seemed peculiar to her friends, few of whom knew about her recent breakdown, and her appearance startled them. She was haggard and her mouth fell into a slight smile, as if she were permanently amused. The Fitzgeralds had always provided Montgomerians with a topic of conversation and gossip, but now it was no longer entirely out of envy that their names came up.
The notion had definitely lost its appeal for Scott, who turned thirty-five that September. Novel intensive begins. Zelda began to feel increasingly uncomfortable in Montgomery. She felt surrounded by women of limited horizons. Judge Sayre was gravely ill. He had not recovered from the influenza of the previous spring and the strain of his long sickness exhausted Mrs. Outwardly she was composed, even calm, but she tended to reminisce more than she had before, as if her memories gave her comfort.
It was in the midst of this atmosphere of illness and impending death that Scott announced his plans to go to Hollywood. An offer came via Harold Ober to work on a film script under the direction of Irving Thalberg, and Scott felt he could not turn it down. The money was good and he was eager to try his hand at films again after his rankling failure in He would be gone no more than eight weeks and be home by Christmas.
Even before Scott left, Zelda had begun to work on her writing. It was the only field she felt remained open to her in which she might be able to accomplish something professionally. Dancing was now permanently out of the question, for she was no longer in top physical condition and she realized the limitations of both her age and her ability. She felt her talents as a painter were second-rate and, besides, her poor eyesight made painting difficult and tiring. She had attracted a modest amount of attention as a short-story writer in the College Humor pieces and she hoped there would be a market for the kind of stories she wanted to write.
Writing regularly, with an astonishing degree of self-discipline and speed, she finished at least seven stories and began planning a novel during the period Scott was in Hollywood. Only one of the stories was a revision from the previous summer, and they were usually mailed to Harold Ober just as soon as they were typed. Unfortunately, only one of the stories was published and none survive in manuscript.
The synopses kept by Ober give us our only clue to their general content. Two stories were Southern in their locale and in both there was a clutter of sensational events: miscegenation, attempted incest, a shooting, and automobile accidents were elements about which the stories turned. The others centered on the chic worlds of Long Island and Europe. But no matter what their themes were, Ober could not sell them. In notes accompanying the stories, Zelda asked Ober what he thought about them and suggested where they might be published. All too frequently her stories had failed because they became homilies on conduct overly laden with description of setting.
Her characters froze into prototypes rather than growing as memorable and separate people. The story is about a young American couple, Larry and Lola, who play the banjo and sing in a club in Paris. They attract a patron who introduces them on the Riviera, where they become a success. There is a casual reference to an abortion, which they have to borrow money to cover.
Eventually Larry persuades Lola to leave with him for America, where, he believes, they can make a name for themselves. We learn of their flop in the States through the patron, who had been instrumental in providing them with an introduction to the smart club in America where they failed. Lola retaliates by bringing a lawsuit for a hundred thousand dollars against them. Lola survives with a lonely existence before her.
Alan Beale's Core Vocabulary Compiled from 3 Small ESL Dictionaries (21877 Words)
The missing word was ruin. She understood that a failure of love made meaningless the otherwise potent nouns success and beauty—each of which was liable to impermanence. Except that Zelda points out both the responsibility and the foolishness of those who take their attention as anything more than part of an intricate game, in which the rich play as masters with little at stake.
The story was reviewed in St. Paul by James Gray, who knew the Fitzgeralds.
He called it a companion piece to Gatsby, and added that a dual egotism had sustained the main characters—an absorption in each other was the first thing that distinguished them—as it had Scott and Zelda, he might have added. That absorption in each other had already left its mark on both their lives, and now that Scott was in Hollywood Zelda felt intensely her need for him, his company, and his reassurance.
During the eight weeks that Scott was gone Zelda wrote him thirty-odd letters. In these letters she again and again told him of her dependence upon him. Rereading his stories was in part a gesture of love made in his absence, but Zelda was also reading them in order to learn how to construct fiction. It was inevitable that she would model her work on his. The social and emotional territory of their work had always been strikingly similar. Unfortunately this stimulated one of the symptoms of her illness, competitiveness toward Fitzgerald. For what she was doing now was measuring her abilities as a writer against his—and finding her own lacking.
With some ruinous facility junk just flows and is utterly worthless. No one, or at least neither Scott nor Zelda nor the Sayres, questioned the intense speed at which she was working. The isolation she must have required in order to write did not then strike Fitzgerald as being at all out of hand, nor did it remind him of that period just prior to her breakdown in Paris when she was extremely productive, writing at a tremendous clip, while continuing her ballet. Suddenly in early November the Judge grew worse. I only go once a day and take Mamma for a long drive, since he is completely unconscious and does not know us or seem to want anybody about.
Zelda was notified the following morning. At his death the State of Alabama paid him its highest honors. At the capitol the main entrance to the supreme court chamber was draped with black crepe and the flag flew at half staff. Roses were cut from the grounds of the capitol and placed around his casket. A simple burial sermon was read and there were no hymns, for the Judge had requested that manifestations of sentiment be avoided. And all of us care that we will never hear a certain chuckle again or see the fingers meet a certain way. We doubt if any holder of a State office in the last 20 years has known so few Alabamians personally as Judge Sayre.
Senate senate Senator senator senatorial send send-off senile senility Senior senior senior citizen senior high school seniority sensation sensational sensationalism sensationally sense senseless sensibility sensible sensibly sensitive sensitively sensitivity sensor sensory sensual sensuality sensuous sent sentence sentiment sentimental sentimentality sentry separable separate separated separately separation Sept. September sequel sequence sequential sequoia serenade serene serenely serenity sergeant serial serial killer serial number series serious seriously seriousness sermon serpent serrated serum servant serve server service serviceable service charge serviceman service station servicewoman servile serving servitude session set setback setting settle settled settlement settler setup seven seventeen seventeenth seventh seventieth seventy sever several severance severance pay severe severely severity sew sewage sewer sewing sewing machine sewn sex sexism sexist sexual sexual intercourse sexuality sexually sexy Sgt.
Tuesday tuft tufted tug tugboat tug of war tuition tulip tumble tumbler tummy tumor tumult tumultuous tuna tundra tune tuner tune-up tunic tunnel turban turbine turbulence turbulent turd tureen turf turgid turkey turmoil turn turnaround turncoat turning point turnip turn-off turnout turnover turnpike turn signal turnstile turntable turpentine turquoise turret turtle turtleneck tush tusk tussle tutor tutorial tutoring tux tuxedo TV TV dinner twang tweak tweed tweet tweezers twelfth twelve twentieth twenty twenty-one twerp twice twiddle twig twilight twin twin bed twine twinge twinkle twin-size twirl twist twisted twister twit twitch twitter two two-bit two-dimensional two-faced two-piece two-tone tycoon tyke Tylenol type typecast typeface typewriter typewritten typhoid typhoon typical typically typify typing typist typo tyrannical tyrannize tyranny tyrant U u ubiquitous ubiquity udder UFO ugh ugliness ugly uh uh-huh uh-oh uh-uh U.
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