A Life in Letters

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Dear Marya:

  Thank you for writing me about Gatsby—I especially appreciate your letter because women, and even intelligent women, haven’t generally cared much for it. They do not like women to be presented as emotionally passive—as a matter of fact I think most women are, that their minds are taken up with a sort of second rate and inessential bookkeeping which their apologists call “practicallity”—like the French they are centime-savers in the business of magic. (You see I am a Schopenhaurian, not a Shavian).

  You are thrilled by New York—I doubt you will be after five more years when you are more fully nourished from within. I carry the place around the world in my heart but sometimes I try to shake it off in my dreams. America’s greatest promise is that something is going to happen, and after awhile you get tired of waiting because nothing happens to people except that they grow old and nothing happens to American art because America is the story of the moon that never rose. Nor does the “minute itself” ever come in life either, the minute not of unrest + hope but of a glowing peace—such as when the moon rose that night on Gerald + Sara’s garden + you said you were happy to be there. No one ever makes things in America with that vast, magnificent, cynical disillusion with which Gerald + Sara make things like their parties.

  (They were here, last week, + we spent six or seven happy days together.)

  My new novel is marvellous. I’m in the first chapter. You may recognize certain things and people in it.

  The young people in America are brilliant with 2nd hand sophistication inherited from their betters of the war generation who to some extent worked things out for themselves. They are brave, shallow, cynical, impatient, turbulent and empty. I like them not. The “fresh, strong river of America,”! My God, Marya, where are your eyes—Or are they too fresh and strong to see anything but their own color + contour in the glass. America is so decadent that its brilliant children are damned almost before they are born—Can you name a single American artist except James + Whisler (who lived in England) who didn’t die of drink? If it is fresh + strong to be unable to endure or tolerate things-as-they-are, to shutor eyes or to distort and lie—then you’re right Marya Mannes and no one has ever so misinterpeted the flowers of civilization, the Greek + Gallic idea, as

  Your Sincere Admirer

  F Scott Fitzgerald

  TO: Ernest Hemingway

  Postmarked November 30, 1925

  ALS, 2 pp. John F. Kennedy Library

  Dear Ernest: I was quite ashamed of the other morning. Not only in disturbing Hadly,1 but in foistering that “Juda Lincoln” alias George Morgenthau apon you. However it is only fair to say that the deplorable man who entered your appartment Sat. morning was not me but a man named Johnston who has often been mistaken for me.

  Zelda, evidences to the contrary, was not suffering from lack of care but from a nervous hysteria which is only releived by a doctor bearing morphine. We both went to Bellau Wood next day to recuperate.

  For some reason I told you a silly lie—or rather an exageration, silly because the truth itself was enough to make me sufficiently jubilant. The Sat. Eve. Post. raised me to $2750.00 and not $3000. which is a jump of $750. in one month. It was probably in my mind that I could now get $3000. from the smaller magazines. The Post merely met the Hearst offer, but that is something they seldom do.

  What garbled versions of the Mcalmon episode or the English orgy we lately participated in, I told you, I don’t know. It is true that I saved Mcalmon2 from a beating he probably deserved and that we went on some wild parties in London with a certain Marchioness of Milford Haven whom we first met with Telulah Bankhead. She was about half royalty, I think. Anyhow she was very nice—anything else I may have added about the relations between the Fitzgeralds and the house of Windsor is pure fiction.

  I’m crazy to read the comic novel.1 Are you going to the Mclieshe’s Tuesday? I hope Hadly is well now. Please believe that we send our

  Best Wishes to

  Ernest M. Hemminway

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  c. December 27, 1925

  ALS, 3 pp. Princeton University

  14 Rue de Tilsitt

  Paris, France

  Dear Max:

  I write to you from the depths of one of my unholy depressions. The book is wonderful—I honestly think that when its published I shall be the best American novelist (which isn’t saying a lot) but the end seems far away. When its finished I’m coming home for awhile anyhow though the thought revolts me as much as the thought of remaining in France. I wish I were twenty-two again with only my dramatic and feverishly enjoyed miseries. You remember I used to say I wanted to die at thirty—well, I’m now twenty-nine and the prospect is still welcome. My work is the only thing that makes me happy—except to be a little tight—and for those two indulgences I pay a big price in mental and physical hangovers.

  I thank you for your newsy letter—by the way we got and hugely enjoyed Louise’s beautiful book2 and I wrote and thanked her care of Scribners. I liked too your idea about Representative Men3 but it seems remote to me. Let me know if it comes to something and I’ll contribute.

  That was a sweet slam from Ellen Mackey. Is it true that she and Irving Berlin have signed up to play a permanent engagement in Abie’s Irish Rose?4

  I hope the short stories sell seven or eight thousand or so. Is Gatsby dead? You don’t mention it. Has it reached 25,000? I hardly dare to hope so. Also I deduce from your silence that Tom Boyd’s book was a flop. If so I hope he isn’t in financial difficulties. Also I gather from reviews that the penciled frown5 came a croper. I wish Liveright would lose faith in Ernest. Through the whole year only the following American novels have seemed worth a damn to me.

  The Spring Flight6

  Perrenial Bachelor

  In Our Time

  The Great Gatsby

  I thought the books by Lewis, Van Vechten, Edith Wharton, Floyd Dell, Tom Boyd and Sherwood Anderson were just lowsy!1

  And the ones by Willa Cather and Cyril Hume almost as bad.2

  Dos Passos + Ruth Suckow I havn’t yet read.3

  The press Anderson got on Dark Laughter filled me with a much brighter shade of hilarity. You notice it wasn’t from those of us who waited for the Winesburg stories one by one in the Little Review but by Harry Hansen, Stallings ect + the other boys who find a new genius once a week and at all cost follow the fashions.

  Its good you didn’t take my advice about looking up Gertrude Stien’s new book (The Making of Americans). Its bigger than Ullyses and only the first parts, the parts published in the Transatlantic are intelligable at all. Its published privately here.

  The best English books of the fall are The Sailor’s Return by David Garnett and No More Parades by Ford Maddox Ford (a sequeal to Some do Not)

  (Speaking of Gertrude Stien I hope you are keeping my precious Three Lives safe for me. Ring’s book sounds good. Send me a copy—also the wrap of mine.

  I told Ober to send you half a dozen seats for the Gatsby opening to distribute to the Scribners as you think best. If you want more phone him.

  No, Zelda’s not entirely well yet. We’re going south next month to Saliesles-Bains to see if we can cure her there. So from the time of recieving this letter adress all mail to me care of

  The Guaranty Trust Co.

  1 Rue des Italiens

  Paris, France

  Why was Jack Wheeler kicked out of Liberty?

  My novel should be finished next fall.

  Tell me all the gossip that isn’t in The New Yorker or the World—isn’t there any regular dirt?

  I called on Chatto and Windus in London last month + had a nice talk with Swinnerton,4 their reader (It was he, it seems, who was strong for the book. Saw Leslie also + went on some very high tone parties with Mountbattens and all that sort of thing. Very impressed, but not very, as I furnished most of the amusement myself. Please write! Best to Louise.

  Your Friend

  Scott Fitz—

  Has
story book had good advance sale? Or hasn’t it been the rounds yet. Whats its date?

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  c. December 30, 1925

  ALS, 3 pp. Princeton University

  Paris

  14 Rue de Tilsitt

  [New adress

  Guaranty Trust Co.

  1 Rue des Italiennes]

  Dear Max:

  (1.) To begin with many thanks for all deposits, to you and to the Scribners in general. I have no idea now how I stand with you. To set me straight will you send me my account now instead of waiting till February 1st. It must be huge, and I’m miserable about it. The more I get for my trash the less I can bring myself to write. However this year is going to be different.

  Hemming ways book (not his novel) is a 28,000 word satire on Sherwood Anderson and his imitators called The Torrents of Spring. I loved it, but believe it wouldn’t be popular, + Liveright have refused it—they are backing Anderson and the book is almost a vicious parody on him. You see I agree with Ernest that Anderson’s last two books have let everybody down who believed in him—I think they’re cheap, faked, obscurantic and awful. Hemmingway thinks, but isn’t yet sure to my satisfaction, that their refusal sets him free from his three book (letter) agreement with them. In that case I think he’ll give you his novel (on condition you’ll publish satire first—probable sale 1000 copies) which he is now revising in Austria. Harcourt has just written Louie Bromfield1 that to get the novel they’ll publish satire, sight unseen (utterly confidential) and Knopf is after him via Aspin-wall Bradley.2

  He and I are very thick + he’s marking time until he finds out how much he’s bound to Liveright. If he’s free I’m almost sure I can get satire to you first + then if you see your way clear you can contract for the novel tout ensemble. He’s anxious too to get a foothold in your magazine—one story I’ve sent you—the other, to my horror he’d given for about $40 to an “arty” publication called This Quarter, over here.

  He’s dead set on having the satire published first. His idea has always been to come to you + his only hesitation has been that Harcourt might be less conservative in regard to certain somewhat broad scenes. His adress is:

  Herr Ernest Hemmingway

  Hotel Taube

  Don’t even tell him I’ve discussed

  Schrunns

  his Liveright + Harcourt relations

  Vorarlburg

  with you

  Austria

  As soon as he has definate dope I’ll pass it on to you I wanted a strong wire to show you were as interested, and more, than Harcourt. Did you know your letter just missed by two weeks getting In Our Time. It had no sale of course but I think the novel may be something extraordinary—Tom Boyd and E. E. Cummings + Biggs combined.

  Wasn’t Dos Passos’ book1 astonishingly good. I’m very fond of him but I had lost faith in his work.

  (3.) Tell me all about my play.

  (4.) I can’t wait to see the book your sending me. Zelda says it might be Gatsby but I don’t think so.

  (5) Poor Eleanor Wylie! Poor Bill Benet!2 Poor everybody!

  (6) My novel is wonderful.

  (7) The translation of Gatsby sounds wonderful.

  Will you ask the bookstore to send The Beautiful and Damned to M. Victor Llona, 106 Rue de La Tour, Paris Thanks. Charge to my account, of course.

  I thought Dunns3 remark about Biggs book was wonderful. Tell me about it. Also about Tom Boyd’s work and Ring’s. You never do.

  As Ever

  Scott

  TO: Blanche Knopf4

  January 1926?

  ALS, 2 pp. Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center,

  University of Texas, Austin

  c/o Guaranty Trust

  1 Rue des Italiennes

  Dear Blanche:

  I hate like hell to have to decline all those invitations but as this is three days too late I’ve no choice. As “cocktail”, so I gather, has become a verb, it ought to be be conjugated at least

  Present

  I cocktail

  We cocktail

  Thou cocktail

  You cocktail

  It cocktails

  They cocktail

  Imperfect

  I was cocktailing

  Perfect

  I cocktailed

  (past definate)

  Pastperfect

  I have cocktailed

  Conditional

  I might have cocktailed

  Pluperfect

  I had cocktailed

  Subjunctive

  I would have cocktailed

  Voluntary Sub.

  I should have cocktailed

  Preterite

  I did cocktail

  Imperative

  Cocktail!

  Interrogtive

  Cocktailest thou? (Dos’t Cocktail?) (or Wilt Cocktail?)

  Subjunctive Conditional

  I would have had to have cocktailed

  Conditional Subjunctive

  I might have had to have cocktailed

  Participle

  Cocktailing

  I find this getting dull, and would much rather talk to you, about turbans. Please come back to Paris, as I would be glad to set you up in the publishing business here. A new addition of The Memoirs of Fanny Hill1 is need at once and I’m collecting material

  So be sure to come back in early August. We are moving around impulsively so I’m giving the bank as adress, but I’m sure to be here in Paris

  Undying Devotion

  from

  Scott Fitzg

  TO: Harold Ober

  Received February 4, 1926

  ALS, 2 pp. Lilly Library

  c/o Guaranty Trust Co.

  1 Rue des Italiens

  Dear Ober:

  We have come to a lost little village called Salies-de-Béarn in the Pyrenes where my wife is to take a special treatment of baths for eleven months for an illness that has run now for almost a year.2 Here they have the strongest salt springs in the world—and out of season nothing much else—we are two of seven guests in the only open hotel.

  We’ll be here until March 1st but you’d better adress any letters to me at Paris—that’s just as quick for letters. Cables about the play had better come to Fitzgerald, Bellevue

  About the story The Dance, the first detective story I’ve ever tried, I’m afraid its no good—(if it ever reaches you—I’m beginning to think that nothing I send ever does. That one I had registered. Did both copies of Adolescent Marrige come—or either) to continue—please don’t offer the dance to the Post or Red Book. Why not College Humor for $1500. or Women’s Home Companion (?). Tell me what you think?

  I must owe you thousands—three at least—maybe more. I am forever under obligations to you for your kindness. From now till March 1st will be a steady stream of $2500. stories—five more of them. And I hope by then the play will begin to yield something on the side. I honestly think I cause you more trouble and bring you less business than any of your clients. How you tolerate it I don’t know—but thank God you do. And 1926 is going to be a different story.

  Did I tell you McCalls wrote again asking me about the novel. Will you talk to them? Its begun but I’m putting it aside for a month or so like I did Gatsby and it won’t be done before the end of the year.

  Someone told me Mr. Reynolds had been sick. Is that so? I hope not.

  Thank you for the thousandth thousand for the thousandth time.

  Scott Fitzg—

  Story sent yesterday which was to have been 4th of series but was so much revised that I didn’t send it from Paris after all. Have sent in all seven manuscripts of four different stories.

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  ALS, 3 pp. Princeton University

  South of France

  Feb 20th, 1926

  Dear Max:

  Two things have just occurred to me—or rather three.

  (1.) You’ll get this letter about the 3d of March. My book of stories may, at that time have been
out three weeks or three days—you’ve not told me the date. Will you in any case write me immediately forcasting roughly the approximate sale? I know it can be only guesswork and you’ll be afraid of over estimating but I’d like to know at least the sale to that date. It has something to do with my income tax which must leave here the 14th. Also, would you send me an income tax blank?

  My God! If it should sell 10,000 copies I’d be out of debt to you for the 1st time since 1922. Isn’t that a disgrace, when I get $2500. for a story as my regular price. But trash doesn’t come as easily as it used to and I’ve grown to hate the poor old debauched form itself.

  How about Tom Boyd? Is he still going to be one of the barnyard boys? Or has he got sense and decided to write about the war, or seducing married women in St. Paul, or life in a bum Kentucky military school, or something he knows about. He has no touch of genius like Hemmingway and Cummings but like Dos Passos he has a strong, valuable talent. He must write about the external world, as vividly and accutely and even brilliantly as he can, but let him stop there. He is almost without the power of clear ratiocination and he has no emotional depths whatsoever. His hide is so thick that only battle itself could really make an impression on him—playing with the almost evanescent spiritual material of Anderson he becomes an ox to public view. I wish to God I could see him + talk to him. For heavens sake, Max, curb your usual (and, generally, sagacious) open-mindedness and don’t help him to ruin his future by encouraging his stupidest ambitions. He’ll turn bitter with failure.

  (2.) Has the play’s success helped the book Gatsby. My theory, you know, is that nowadays theres not the faintest connection. That’s why I wouldn’t allow a movie addition of the Beautiful + Damned. By the way I don’t imagine those little 75 cent books sell any more. They shouldn’t. Do they? I mean did the Jesse William’s, Arthur Train’s, Wilson’s adresses, ect, sell like The Perfect Tribute1 + The Third Wise Man.2