Taking a quick break from the movies (but I did watch a great movie that I’m going to do a review of soon), I want to share with all of you this piece that I wrote. It’s technically a college essay (maybe, it might not quite fit the genre), but I think it’s too adorable. I don’t meant to toot my own horn, and I’ve never really been one to do that, but I just think it is too cute! Usually my writing is dark, depressing and all-together upsetting to most, but this? Nuh-uh! So here we go. A tribute to Scott:
Over the years, I have been involved with many literary men. I contemplated whether or not “to be” with an Englishman, some New Yorker tried to tell me repeatedly how much of a phony I was, I’ve even been through the nine levels of hell with some crazy Italian! But the true man for me is F. Scott Fitzgerald. He truly speaks to me, and we understand each other. Often I have sat with him, and without myself saying a word, he has expressed his innermost desires and passions. Sometimes, I find that he is a little wealth-obsessed, and although this is a little upsetting, I understand–it’s hard not to be in these days. It’s not exactly he that wants the wealth of others, he simply has a small fascination with the wealthy and their lives. And of course, who doesn’t? His drinking is a little heavy at times, but he makes up for it with his elaborate sentences and lavish prose. Often times, when I sit down with him, I find myself getting lost in what he’s saying, myself becoming part of the world he describes. His verbs are so vivid, and his descriptions so clear and full of imagery that it’s impossible not to picture his words forming scenes. Sometimes I worry about him though. He holds on so to his youth, and as the years pass I can see it slipping from him. I heard from Budd Shulberg that he was really having a hard time out in Hollywood, and that his once bountiful promise was slipping from him with his age. He really was one to revel and exceed in his youth. It’s the American Dream instilled in him. I understand it, but he simply can’t get it past that silly, talented head of his.
You know, I was there when they found that Gatsby character in the pool, and I had attended each and every one of his parties. And you know Bernice? Well, I helped her decide to bob her hair! When Scottie told me that in fact I was the other woman, and not Zelda, I was simply devastated. But, I still was faithful to him true and true, in my own way. I have to admit that I did wander off and experiment with some other men. After Fitzgerald, I took a long drive to California with the Joads, and then after, decided to visit Hester Prynne to ask her about how she was dealing with her pain. This one man told me a dreadfully long and convoluted story about some whale, and I quickly moved on to work on a mystery involving Leonardo Da Vinci. I took a trip to see elves and hobbits and dwarves, but it was quite dirty down in Middle Earth so I moved on to spend Tuesdays with a man named Morrie. When I found myself with nothing to do in between Tuesdays, I visited Tara for a few moments, but the atmosphere there was a little too hectic for my liking. Likewise when I visited the Overlook Hotel, and his child kept repeating “redrum, redrum”. It took me ages to figure out he was trying to say murder, and by then I was far too terrified to stay. I even lived in a slaughter-house for a while and got abducted by aliens, but that nonsense was beyond my comprehension.
Although I wander to and fro, book to book, author to author, searching for a replacement for my dear F. Scott, I find that no one can truly match him in my heart. I revisit his stories about Gatsby and Nick, turning back to his anecdotes about Bernice and his ice castle, and then move on to his own more personal material, such of that of Zelda and himself, the two of them so beautiful, and yet damned. I look upon his later life, the life that I am not a part of, but wish I could be with him, while he lost his way in Hollywood. I read his letters, and wish they were to me. I turn to others for their views–Budd Shulberg, Matthew J. Bruccoli–men who like me can’t seem to let go of the legend, our love. Although I share F. Scott with many others, and find myself wandering from him at times, I always return to the man I love, the writing I love, immersing myself in his stories, his prose, his beauty.
Well, thanks for reading, and even if you didn’t, thanks for pretending! We’ll get back to movies shortly, and in the meantime, go read a book!