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GreatGatsby-fitzgerald

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GreatGatsby-fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby.

    By F Scott Fitzgerald.

About the author

    Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

    (September 24, 1896-December 21,

    1940), was a Jazz Age novelist.

    Born in Saint Paul, Minnesota, Fitzgerald is regarded as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th Century. The self-styled spokesman of the ??Lost Generation?? ?ª the Americans born in the 1890s who came of age during World War I ?ª crafted five novels and dozens of short stories that treat themes of youth, despair, and age with remarkable emotional honesty. His heroes ?ª handsome, confident, and doomed ?ª blaze brilliantly before exploding (??Show me a hero,?? he once

    said, ??and I will write you a tragedy??), and his heroines are beautiful and

    intricate.

    He was named for his relative Francis Scott Key, but commonly known as simply Scott. Scott Fitzgerald attended Saint Paul Academy and Summit School in Saint Paul, Minnesota in 1908-1911. He then attended Newman School, a prep school in Hackensack, New Jersey, in 1911-12. He entered Princeton University in 1913 as a member of the Class of 1917 and became friends with the future critics and writers Edmund Wilson ??16 and John Peale Bishop ??17. Saddled with academic difficulties throughout his three-year career at the university, Fitzgerald

    dropped out in 1917 to enlist in the United States Army when America entered World War I. However, the war ended quickly thereafter, and he

    was discharged without having been shipped to Europe.

    Certain he was to die in the war and wanting to leave a literary legacy, Fitzgerald had quickly written a novel entitled The Romantic Egotist while in officer training at Camp Taylor, Louisville, Kentucky, and Camp Sheridan, Alabama. The novel was praised but rejected by an editor at the publisher to which he submitted it, Charles Scribner??s Sons

    in New York.

    While at Camp Sheridan, Fitzgerald met Zelda Sayre (1900-1948),

    the ??top girl,?? in Fitzgerald??s words, of Montgomery, Alabama, youth society. The two were engaged in 1919 and Fitzgerald moved into an apartment at 200 Claremont Avenue in New York City to try to lay a foundation for his life with Zelda. Working at an advertising firm and writing short stories, Fitzgerald was unable to convince Zelda that he

    would be able to support her. She broke off the engagement and Fitzgerald returned to his parents?? house in St. Paul to revise The Romantic Egotist. Recast as This Side of Paradise, it was accepted by Scribner??s in the fall of 1919, and Zelda and Scott resumed their engagement. It was published on March 26, 1920, and became one of the most popular books of the year, defining the flapper generation. The next

    week, Scott and Zelda were married in New York??s St. Patrick??s Cathedral. Their daughter and only child, Frances Scott ??Scottie?? Fitzgerald, was born on October 26, 1921.

    Although Fitzgerald??s passion lay in writing novels, they never sold well enough to support the opulent lifestyle that he and Zelda adopted as

    New York celebrities. To support this lifestyle, he turned to writing short

    stories for such magazines as the Saturday Evening Post, Collier??s Magazine, and Esquire magazine, and sold movie rights of his stories and novels to Hollywood studios. He was constantly in financial trouble and often required loans from his literary agent, Harold Ober, and his editor at Scribner??s, Maxwell Perkins.

    The 1920s proved the most influential decade of Fitzgerald??s development. His second novel, The Beautiful and Damned, published in 1922, represents an impressive development over the comparatively immature This Side of Paradise. The Great Gatsby, which many consider his masterpiece, was published in 1925. Fitzgerald made several famous excursions to Europe, notably Paris and the French Riviera during the 20s, and became friends with many members of the American expatriate community in Paris, notably Ernest Hemingway.

    Fitzgerald began working on his fourth novel during the late 1920s but was sidetracked by financial difficulties that necessitated his writing

    commercial short stories, and the schizophrenia that struck Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald in 1930. Her emotional health remained fragile for the rest of

    her life. In 1932, she was hospitalized in Baltimore, Maryland, and

Scott

    rented the ??La Paix?? estate in the suburb of Towson to work on his book,

    which had become the story of the rise and fall of Dick Diver, a promising young psychoanalyst and his wife, Nicole, who is also one of

    his patients. It was published in 1934 as Tender Is the Night. Critics regard it as one of Fitzgerald??s finest works.

    Once again in dire financial straits, Fitzgerald spent the second half of the 1930s in Hollywood, working on commercial short stories, scripts for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and his fifth and final novel, The Love of the

    Last Tycoon, based on the life of film executive Irving Thalberg. He and

    Zelda became estranged; she continued living in mental institutions on

    the east coast, while he lived with his lover Sheilah Graham in Hollywood.

    Always something of an alcoholic and consequently in poor health during the late 1930s, Fitzgerald suffered two heart attacks in late 1940.

    He died of the second one on December 21, 1940, in Sheilah Graham??s apartment in Hollywood. Zelda died in a fire at the Highland mental institution in Asheville, North Carolina, in 1948. The two are buried in

    Saint Mary??s Cemetery, in Rockville, Maryland.

    He never completed The Love of the Last Tycoon. His notes for the novel were edited by his friend Edmund Wilson and published in 1941 as The Last Tycoon. However, there is now critical agreement that Fitzgerald intended the title of the book to be The Love of the Last Tycoon, as is reflected in a new 1994 edition of the book, edited by Fitzgerald scholar Matthew Bruccoli of the University of South Carolina.

Chapter 1.

    Chapter 2.

    Chapter 3.

    Chapter 4.

    Chapter 5.

    Chapter 6.

    Chapter 7.

    Chapter 8.

    Chapter 9.

Note:

    The best way to read this ebook is in Full Screen mode (in Adobe Acrobat, click View, FullScreen). In Full Screen View, you can use Page Down to go to the next page, and press Escape to exit the Full Screen View.

F Scott Fitzgerald.

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;

    If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,

    Till she cry ??Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing

lover, I must have you!??

Thomas Parke D??InVilliers.

NOTICE

Copyright . 2004 thewritedirection.net

    Please note that although the text of this ebook is in the public domain, this

    pdf edition is a copyrighted publication.

    FOR COMPLETE DETAILS, SEE

    COLLEGEBOOKSHELF.NET/COPYRIGHTS

Chapter 1.

    In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I??ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

    ??Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,?? he told me, ??just remember that all the people in this world haven??t had the advantages that you??ve had.??

    He didn??t say any more, but we??ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I??m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal

.

    person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought?ªfrequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

    And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don??t care what it??s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction?ªGatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate ma-

    chines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the ??creative temperament.???ª it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic

    readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No?ªGatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

    My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations.The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we??re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather??s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.

    I never saw this great-uncle, but I??m supposed to look like him?ªwith special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father??s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe?ªso I decided to go East and learn the bond

.

    business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, ??Why?ªye?ªes,?? with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

    The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog?ªat least I had him for a few days until he ran away?ªand an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

    It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

    ??How do you get to West Egg village??? he asked helplessly.

    I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

    And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had

    that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

    There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold

    like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college?ªone year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the ??Yale News.???ªand now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the ??well-rounded man.?? This isn??t just an epigram?ªlife is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

    It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York?ªand where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals?ª like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat

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