A Life in Letters

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  Invent a system Zolawsque (see the appendix to Josephson’s Life of Zola1 in which he gives Zola’s plan for the first Rougon-Macquart book), but buy a file. On the first page of the file put down the outline of a novel of your times enormous in scale (don’t worry, it will contract by itself) and work on the plan for two months. Take the central point of the file as your big climax and follow your plan backward and forward from that for another three months. Then draw up somthing as complicated as a continuity from what you have and set yourself a schedule.

  After all who am I to be giving you advice? I dare to do so only because I know that you are at heat a humble man and not resentful of anything said by one who wishes you well.

  (This is being taken down by a young man from Brown University who is wilting visibly as he writes after a session with the many concerns that seem to surround a man of forty and the hieroglyphics of a half-done Post story to decipher tomorrow. He sends his regards or does he? Do you? No answer. He says he wonders what would happen if he would write a postscript to this thing.)

  So much for tonight. If this seems toilet paper you can also use it to wipe Dr. Daniel Ogden Stewart’s mouth when he finally gets the kick in the ass that he has been asking for so long. I want one lens of his double monocle to set up here in Carolina in an astronomical station to be able to see human life as cheaply as he has seen it.2

  Ever your friend,

  Ernest Hemingway’s note in the margin of the first page: This is all nonsense. He is referring to my cutting the first paragraphs of a story called Fifty Grand. It is a funny story which I would be glad to give you if you like

  E. H.

  TO: Annabel Fitzgerald Sprague Unlocated fragment—reprinted from Turnbull August 1936?

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Dear Annabel:

  It has been a rather terrible day and tomorrow promises to be no better, but after that I’m going to—got to—put Mother out of my mind for a day or so. I’ll summarize what happened.

  It was sad taking her from the hotel, the only home she knew for fifteen years, to die—and to go thru her things. The slippers and corset she was married in, Louisa’s dolls in tissue paper, old letters and souvenirs, and collected scrap paper, and diaries that began and got nowhere, all her prides and sorrows and disappointments all come to nothing, and her lugged away like so much useless flesh the world had got thru with—

  TO: Scottie Fitzgerald

  Princeton University

  Mother and I never had anything in common except a relentless stubborn quality, but when I saw all this it turned me inside out realizing how unhappy her temperament made her and how she clung, to the end, to all things that would remind her of moments of snatched happiness. So I couldn’t bear to throw out anything, even that rug, and it all goes to storage.

  TO: Bennett Cerf

  CC, 1 p. Princeton University

  Grove Park Inn,

  Asheville, N.C.,

  August 13, 1936.

  Dear Bennett:

  The revision job1 would take the form, to a large extent, of a certain new alignment of the scenes—without changing their order in any case. Some such line as this:

  That the parts instead of being one, two, and three (they were one, two, three and four in the magazine serial) would include in several cases sudden stops and part headings which would be to some extent explanatory; certain pages would have to be inserted bearing merely headings. Part two, for example, should say in a terse and graceful way that the scene is now back on the Riviera in the fall after these events have taken place, or that, This brings us up to where Rosemary first encounters the Divers. Those examples are not accurate to my intention nor are they at all couched as I would have them, but that’s the general idea. (Do you remember the number of subheads I used in “This Side of Paradise”—at that time a rather novel experiment, the germ of which I borrowed from Bernard Shaw’s preface headings to his plays; indeed that was one of the few consciously original things in “This Side of Paradise”.)

  There would be certain changes but I would supply the equivalent line lengths. I have not my plan with me; it seems to be in Baltimore. But I know how printing costs are. It was evolved to have a very minimum of replacement. There is not more than one complete sentence that I want to eliminate, one that has offended many people and that I admit is out of Dick’s character: “I never did go in for making love to dry loins.” It is a strong line but definitely offensive. These are all the changes I contemplated with in addition some minor spelling corrections such as would disturb nothing but what was within a printed line. There will be no pushing over of paragraphs or disorganization of the present set-up except in the aforesaid inserted pages. I don’t want to change anything in the book but sometimes by a single word change one can throw a new emphasis or give a new value to the exact same scene or setting.

  Ever yours,

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  TLS, 2 pp.—with holograph revisions Princeton University

  Asheville, N.C.,

  Sept. 19th, 1936

  Dear Max:

  This is my second day of having a minute to catch up with correspondence. Probably Harold Ober has kept you in general touch with what has happened to me but I will summarize:

  I broke the clavicle of my shoulder, diving—nothing heroic, but a little too high for the muscles to tie up the efforts of a simple swan dive—At first the Doctors thought that I must have tuberculosis of the bone, but x-ray showed nothing of the sort, so (like occasional pitchers who throw their arm out of joint with some unprepared for effort) it was left to dangle for twenty-four hours with a bad diagnosis by a young Intern; then an x-ray and found broken and set in an elaborate plaster cast.

  I had almost adapted myself to the thing when I fell in the bath-room reaching for the light, and lay on the floor until I caught a mild form of arthritis called “Miotoosis,” which popped me in the bed for five weeks more. During this time there were domestic crises: Mother sickened and then died and I tried my best to be there but couldn’t. I have been within a mile and a half of my wife all summer and have seen her about half dozen times. Total accomplished for one summer has been one story—not very good, two Esquire articles, neither of them very good.

  You have probably seen Harold Ober and he may have told you that Scottie got a remission of tuition at a very expensive school where I wanted her to go (Miss Edith Walker’s School in Connecticut).1 Outside of that I have no good news, except that I came into some money from my Mother, not as much as I had hoped, but at least $20,000. in cash and bonds at the materilization in six months—for some reason, I do not know the why or wherefore of it, it requires this time. I am going to use some of it, with the products of the last story and the one in process of completion, to pay off my bills and to take two or three months rest in a big way. I have to admit to myself that I haven’t the vitality that I had five years ago.

  I feel that I must tell you something which at first seemed better to leave alone: I wrote Ernest about that story of his, asking him in the most measured terms not to use my name in future pieces of fiction. He wrote me back a crazy letter, telling me about what a great Writer he was and how much he loved his children, but yielding the point—“If I should out live him—” which he doubted. To have answered it would have been like fooling with a lit firecracker.

  Somehow I love that man, no matter what he says or does, but just one more crack and I think I would have to throw my weight with the gang and lay him. No one could ever hurt him in his first books but he has completely lost his head and the duller he gets about it, the more he is like a punch-drunk pug fighting himself in the movies.

  No particular news except the dreary routine of illness.

  As ever yours,

  Scott Fitz

  Scotty excited about the wedding.

  TO: Harold Ober

  Received October 5, 1936

  ALS, 3 pp. Lilly Library

  Asheville, North Carolina

&nbs
p; (personal: Mr Ober only)

  Dear Harold: I’ll try to summarize all that’s happened in the last two weeks. 1st about the story1:

  It is all corrected except one part but I’m in a quandary about getting it typed because I can’t send it off as is without having even the original that being in shorthand as the arm was just a broken mess one week (before last) + I had to dictate again. The two available stenographers I found between jobs. + both are engaged but I’ll think of something + shoot to get it off tomorrow night its about a cartoonist + I like it + so do the people who’ve heard parts of it.

  2nd About the article about Michael Muck.21 was in bed with temp about 102 when the [obliterated] phone rang and a voice said that this party had come all the way from N. Y to interview me. I fell for this like a damn fool, got him up, gave him a drink + accepted his exterior good manners. He had some relative with mental trouble (wife or mother) so I talked to him freely about treatments symtoms ect, about being depressed at advancing age and a little desperate about the wasted summer with this shoulder and arm—perhaps more freely than if had been well. I hadn’t the faintest suspicion what would happen + I’ve never been a publicity seeker + never gotten a rotten deal before. When that thing came it seemed about the end and I got hold of a morphine file and swallowed four grains enough to kill a horse. It happened to be an overdose and almost before I could get to the bed I vomited the whole thing and the nurse came in + saw the empty phial + there was hell to pay. for awhile + afterwards I felt like a fool. And if I ever see, Mr Mock what will happen will be very swift and sudden. Dont tell Perkins.

  As to Scotty there’s nothing I can say to thank you;1 when I’m straight there will be expenses you’ve undertaken for her we can allocate.

  For the financial angle: I wait from day to day—unable now to buy medicines even, or to leave to the hotel because I couldn’t pay a r.r fare—and twenty thousand of mine lies idle in a Baltimore Bank. Edgar Allen Poe Jr. the exector says he can advance me $2000 to $5000 (perhaps that much) but I wire him again and there is no news up to noon today. The hotel, doctors, Zelda’s clinic ect clamor for money but there is none. By Maryland law I cant get the whole sum for six months but the other I cant understand. I want this to catch the only mail. I’ll write the rest this afternoon.

  Ever

  Scott

  TO: C. O. Kalman

  Wire, 2 pp. Princeton University

  ASHEVILLE NCAR 442P 1936 OCT 5 PM 5 20

  OSCAR KALMAN, BROKER WELL KNOWN

  PHONE AND DLR OFFICE OR REISDENCE TONIGHT MOTHER LEFT ME SECURITIES OF MARKET VALUE OF ABOUT TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS AND AN ADMINISTRATOR HAS ONLY JUST BEEN APPOINTED WHO TELLS ME THAT BY MARYLAND LAW I CANT HAVE THEM FOR SIX MONTHS AND NO BALTIMORE BANK WILL ADVISE2 MONEY ON THEM UNDER THOSE CONDITIONS STOP I HAVE BEEN IN BED TEN WEEKS WITH BROKEN SHOULDER AND CONSEQUENT ARTHRITIES INCAPACITATING ME FOR WORK UNTIL THIS WEEK AND AM HEAD OVER HEELS IN DEBT TO PUBLISHER AND INSURANCE COMPANY ANDSOFORTH WITH PERSONAL OBLIGATIONS EMBARRASSING TO STATE IN TELEGRAM STOP CANNOT EVEN PAY TYPISTS OR BUY MEDICINE STOP I NEED ONE THOUSAND IMMEDIATELY AND FIVE THOUSAND WITHIN THE WEEK STOP3 CAN YOU CONSULT WITH ANNABEL MCQUILLAN4 HOW I CAN RAISE THIS AS PERSONAL LOAN SECURED BY NOTE OF HAND OR LIEN DUE ON LIQUIDATION OF LEGACY AT ANY INTEREST AND WIRE ME TONIGHT IF POSSIBLE AT GROVEPARK INN ASHEVILLE AS TO WHAT MIGHT BE DONE STOP THIS IS ABSOLUTELY LAST RECOURSE

  SCOTT FITZGERALD.

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  Wire. Princeton University

  ASHEVILLE NCAR 1936 OCT 6 AM 2 23

  EVEN THOUGH ADMINISTRATOR HAS BEEN APPOINTED BALTIMORE BANK WILL NOT ADVANCE MONEY ON MY SECURITIES OF TWENTY THOUSAND I MARKET VALUE AT THEIR ESTIMATE UNTIL SIX WEEKS BY WHICH TIME I WILL BE IN JAIL STOP WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU CANT PAY TYPIST OR BUY MEDICINES OR CIGARETTS STOP ANY LOANS FROM SCRIBNERS CAN BE SECURED BY LIEN PAYABLE ON LIQUIDATION CANT SOMETHING BE DONE I AM UP AND PRETTY STRONG BUT THESE ARE IMPOSSIBLE WRITING CONDITIONS I NEED THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS WIRED TO FIRST NATIONAL BALTIMORE AND TWO THOUSAND MORE THIS WEEK WIRE ANSWER

  F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.

  TO: C. O. Kalman

  TLS, 2 pp. Princeton University

  Asheville, N.C.,

  Grove Park Inn,

  October 10, 1936.

  Dear Kallie

  Above and beyond the egotism that seems to descend upon a sick man, like a dark cloud, I have been able to appreciate the kindness and friendliness with which you have come to my assistance. I do not know very many rich people well, in spite of the fact that my life has been cast among rich people—certainly only two well enough to have called upon in this emergency, the first personal loan I have ever asked for—though I have made heavy drains on my publishers and agents at times.

  I was just about up to the breaking point financially when I came down here to Asheville. I had been seriously sick for a year and just barely recovered and tried to set up a household in Baltimore which I was ill equipped to sustain. I was planning to spend a fairly leisurely summer, keeping my debt in abeyance on money I had borrowed on my life insurance, when I went over with Zelda (who is in a sanitarium near here, better, but still a mental patient, as perhaps she always will be) to a pool near here and tried a high dive with muscles that had not been exercised, by the doctors’ orders, for two years; and split my shoulder and tore the arm from its moorings, so that the ball of the ball-and-socket joint hung two and one-half inches below the socket joint. It started to heal after two weeks and I fell on it when it was soaked with sweat inside the plaster cast, and got a thing called “Miotosis” which is a form of arthritis. To make a long story short, I was on my back for ten weeks, with whole days in which I was out of bed trying to write or dictate, and then a return to the impotency of the trouble. The more I worried, the less I could write. Being one mile from Zelda, I saw her twice all summer, and was unable to go North when my Mother had a stroke and died, and later was unable to go North to put my daughter in school. (She earned a scholarship to a very expensive school—Miss Walker’s, do you know it? She is now in school and apparently very happy).

  The nervous system is pretty well shot. You have probably guessed that I have been doing a good deal of drinking to keep up what morale has been necessary—think of it any way you want to; I know, thank God, you are no moralist. I know you have lent this money on the ask-me-no-question basis, but I feel I owe you this explanation.

  For Heaven’s sake, please try to expedite the loan. The first time in my life I have known what it is to be hog-tied by lack of money, as you know how casually I have always dealt with it.

  I want to bring Scottie West at Easter and, seeing her, you will see how much I still have to live for, in spite of a year in a slough of despond.

  Ever afftly yours,

  Scott Fitzg—

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  TLS, 3 pp.—with holograph revisions and postscript. Princeton University

  Grove Park Inn

  Asheville, N.C.

  October 16, 1936

  Dear Max:

  As I wired you, an advance on my Mother’s estate from a friend makes it unnecessary to impose on you further.

  I do not like the idea of the biographical book. I have a novel planned, or rather I should say conceived, which fits much better into the circumstances, but neither by this inheritance nor in view of the general financial situation do I see clear to undertake it. It is a novel certainly as long as Tender Is The Night, and knowing my habit of endless corrections and revisions, you will understand that I figure it at two years. Except for a lucky break you see how difficult it would be for me to master the leisure of the two years to finish it. For a whole year I have been counting on such a break in the shape of either Hollywood buying Tender or else of Grisman getting Kirkland or someone else to do an efficient dramatization. (I know I would not like the job and I know that Davis1 who had every reason to undertake it after the success of Gatsby simply turned thumbs down from his dramatist’s instinct that the story was not constructed
as dramatically as Gatsby and did not readily lend itself to dramatization.) So let us say that all accidental, good breaks can not be considered. I can not think up any practical way of undertaking this work. If you have any suggestions they will be welcomed, but there is no likelihood that my expenses will be reduced below $18,000 a year in the next two years, with Zelda’s hospital bills, insurance payments to keep, etc. And there is no likelihood that after the comparative financial failure of Tender Is The Night that I should be advanced such a sum as $36,000. The present plan, as near as I have formulated it, seems to be to go on with this endless Post writing or else go to Hollywood again. Each time I have gone to Hollywood, in spite of the enormous salary, has really set me back financially and artistically. My feelings against the autobiographical book are:

  First: that certain people have thought that those Esquire articles did me definite damage and certainly they would have to form part of the fabric of a book so projected. My feeling last winter that I could put together the articles I had written vanished in the light of your disapproval, and certainly when so many books have been made up out of miscellaneous material and exploited material, as it would be in my case, there is no considerable sale to be expected. If I were Negly Farson1 and had been through the revolutions and panics of the last fifteen years it would be another story, or if I were prepared at this moment to “tell all” it would have a chance at success, but now it would seem to be a measure adopted in extremis, a sort of period to my whole career.

  In relation to all this, I enjoyed reading General Grant’s Last Stand,2 and was conscious of your particular reasons for sending it to me. It is needless to compare the force of character between myself and General Grant, the number of words that he could write in a year, and the absolutely virgin field which he exploited with the experiences of a four-year life under the most dramatic of circumstances. What attitude on life I have been able to put into my books is dependent upon entirely different field of reference with the predominant themes based on problems of personal psychology. While you may sit down and write 3,000 words one day, it inevitably means that you write 500 words the next.