Important emo intro to Gatsby, 1934.

He was just 44 years old.

And now, my favorite lines from Gatsby.

I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye. I liked to walk up Fifth Avenue and pick out romantic women from the crowd and imagine that in a few minutes I was going to enter into their lives, and no one would ever know or disapprove. Sometimes, in my mind, I followed them to their apartments on the corners of hidden streets, and they turned and smiled back at me before they faded through a door into warm darkness. At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others — poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner — young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

Again at eight o’clock, when the dark lanes of the Forties were five deep with throbbing taxi-cabs, bound for the theatre district, I felt a sinking in my heart. Forms leaned together in the taxis as they waited, and voices sang, and there was laughter from unheard jokes, and lighted cigarettes outlined unintelligible 70 gestures inside. Imagining that I, too, was hurrying toward gaiety and sharing their intimate excitement, I wished them well.

The only film Scott ever got a proper credit on — an adaptation of Remarque’s Three Comrades. It isn’t…great.

(Source: rach)

(via Letters of Note)

La Paix, Rodgers’ Forge
Towson, Maryland

August 8, 1933

Dear Pie:

I feel very strongly about you doing duty. Would you give me a little more documentation about your reading in French? I am glad you are happy — but I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either. Those are things you see on the stage or the screen or the printed pages, they never really happen to you in life.

All I believe in in life is the rewards for virtue (according to your talents) and the punishments for not fulfilling your duties, which are doubly costly. If there is such a volume in the camp library, will you ask Mrs. Tyson to let you look up a sonnet of Shakespeare’s in which the line occurs “Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”

Have had no thoughts today, life seems composed of getting up aSaturday Evening Post story. I think of you, and always pleasantly; but if you call me “Pappy” again I am going to take the White Cat out and beat his bottom hard, six times for every time you are impertinent. Do you react to that?

I will arrange the camp bill.

Halfwit, I will conclude.

Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about Cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship
Worry about…

Things not to worry about:

Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t worry about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions

Things to think about: 

What am I really aiming at?
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:

(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

With dearest love,


P.S. My come-back to your calling me Pappy is christening you by the word Egg, which implies that you belong to a very rudimentary state of life and that I could break you up and crack you open at my will and I think it would be a word that would hang on if I ever told it to your contemporaries. “Egg Fitzgerald.” How would you like that to go through life with — “Eggie Fitzgerald” or “Bad Egg Fitzgerald” or any form that might occur to fertile minds? Try it once more and I swear to God I will hang it on you and it will be up to you to shake it off. Why borrow trouble?

Love anyhow.

Cocoanut Grove orchestra. 

“He’d talk about books, and I was well-read, which intrigued him, because a lot of the secretaries were not well-read. There were other functions for them at the time and I wasn’t that kind of girl.”
Frances Kroll Ring, Fitzgerald’s last secretary, LA Times, 2009.

"Greta must be a very busy lady."

New Gatsby trailer. What do we think?

"I remembered how Scott had come with me in the early summer of 1938 -when I moved into the apartment from my big house at 1530 North Kings Road, high up on the hill almost in a straight line - to buy cheap furniture at Barker Brothers bargain basement. Would the apartment still have the rattan floor covering in the living room; the row of unpainted wood bookcases against the whole of the back wall that he had bought to house all the books I was to read in what I called our ”College of One”; and the record player he had bought with the case for the heavy records -no small disks then - next to the fireplace, for my course in music by the great masters?

I could see him sitting up in bed in my spare room working in longhand on ”The Last Tycoon,” rushing to complete the first draft by February 1941, as he had promised his editor, Maxwell Perkins. His writing desk was a large wooden board that he had brought from his apartment.

I remembered how we would shop in the nearby market on Sunset Boulevard. In ”The Last Tycoon,” Scott has a line about it: ”In the open markets, lemons and grapefruit and green apples slanted a misty glare into the street.” We bought T-bone steaks for 35 cents a pound. We shared the same housekeeper - dinner one night at his apartment, the next at mine.”

From The Room Where Scott Died, New York Times, 1987

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