A very happy birthday to F. Scott Fitzgerald, the roaring writer who partied like Gatsby. Scott was one of my favorite literary hellraisers whose life pretty well mirrored the decadence and drama of his novels. Born on this day in 1896, Fitz didn’t just write about the Jazz Age; he almost embodied it with reckless abandon.
First off, he had one of the more chaotic romances in literary history (which is not exactly known for its stable romances…a lot of them seem to end in gunfire) with Zelda Sayre. Their relationship was the stuff of literary legend, filled with passion, drama, and enough public fights to fuel to make most current tabloid headline stars look like amateurs. Zelda was Scott’s muse, partner-in-crime, and co-star in his escapades. Together, they were the original celebrity couple, turning heads and bring The Ruckus wherever they went. Zelda once interrupted a ballet performance, demanding to dance onstage. Yeah, she was that kinda chick.
Fitzgerald didn’t just write about the high life; he lived it with a passion that rivaled his characters. He was known for his extravagant parties, where the only rule was that there were no rules. Like an early (and far more tame) version of Diddy’s White Parties. The couple would crash pool parties, dancing till dawn, and driving through the streets of Paris like they were in the 1920’s version of The Fast and the Furious. Fitzgerald once jumped into the fountain at New York’s Plaza Hotel. Because that’s what writers do, goddamnit.
Of course, as is usually the case, underneath the hard-partying persona was a writer of extraordinary depth and talent. The Great Gatsby wasn’t just a novel…it was a mirror reflecting the rise and fall of the American Dream. It wasn’t as well-received as it should have been when it was first published, it has since become a timeless classic exploring things like longing, wealth, and the pursuit of something more in a particularly American way.
For all his success, Fitz’s life had plenty of struggle. He was an alcoholic, which alcoholism often fueled his reckless behavior, and despite his fame, he seemed to be broke a lot of time. He spent his final years in Hollywood, trying to break into the film industry. But, as I have pointed out before, the artist thrives in conditions of adversity, and so even in adversity, Fitz penned some of his most poignant work. Again, because that’s what writers do, goddammit.
Cheers, dear reader.
N.P.: “Move” – Prototyper
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