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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896) Options
Daemon
Posted: Monday, September 24, 2012 12:00:00 AM
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Joined: 3/7/2009
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F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896)

An American novelist and short-story writer, Fitzgerald was the literary spokesman of the "jazz age" of the 1920s. The characters in his books—which include This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and the Damned, and his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby—lead madcap, gin-drenched, spiritually bankrupt lives that closely resemble his own. In his later years, Fitzgerald was plagued by financial worries and his wife's insanity. Why might he have lied about having tuberculosis? More...
MTC
Posted: Monday, September 24, 2012 6:09:48 PM
Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 1/18/2011
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So, here we go again. F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of The Great Gatsby, the second greatest novel of the twentieth century according to The Modern Library, glides by the stands without notice. He's certainly not the first author to suffer from neglect, nor will he be the last.

Here's the last page of The Great Gatsby with its famous final line:

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 æsthetic 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.

Copyright © 1925 by Charles Scribner’s Sons
Copyright renewed 1953 by Frances Scott Fitzgerald Lanahan


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