A Life in Letters

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  I warned you this would be a long letter. With warmest regards to you and Ann and the children.

  Ever,

  Scott Fitzg

  5521 Amestoy Avenue

  Encino, California

  TO: S.J. Perelman1

  CC, 1 p. Princeton University

  Encino, California

  June 7, 1939

  Dear Sidney:

  Seeing your apparently dead but only sleeping pan in the magazine, I was reminded to address you on several things. One is that while you once inherited a baby nurse from me I have now evened matters up by owning your 1937 Ford which gives excellent service. But the real purpose is this—that Laura’s brother (Nathaniel West) sent me his book1 and a very nice letter with it which has totally disappeared since a trip I made to Cuba and I don’t know where to reach him to answer it.

  The book though it puts Gogol’s “The Lower Depth” in the class with “The Tale of Benjamin Bunny” certainly has scenes of extraordinary power—if that phrase is still in use. Especially I was impressed by the pathological crowd at the premiere, the character and handling of the aspirant actress and the uncanny almost medieval feeling of some of his Hollywood background, set off by those vividly drawn grotesques. The book bears an odd lopsided resemblance to Victor Hugo’s “Notre Dame de Paris” except that the anonymous builders of the middle ages did a better job with their flying buttresses than Mannix, Katz and Company with their theory of the buttocks in place.2

  Anyway, all good wishes to you. I’ll be out of pictures at least till late Fall, working on a novel. Best to Laura.

  Ever your friend,

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  1939

  Wire. Princeton University

  ENCINO CALIF JUL 3

  HAVE BEEN WRITING IN BED WITH TUBERCULOSIS UNDER DOCTORS NURSES CARE SIS ARRIVING WEST. OBER HAS DECIDED NOT TO BACK ME THOUGH I PAID BACK EVERY PENNY AND EIGHT THOUSAND COMMISSION.3 AM GOING TO WORK THURSDAY IN STUDIO AT FIFTEEN HUNDRED CAN YOU LEND ME SIX HUNDRED FOR ONE WEEK BY WIRE TO BANK AMERICA CULVERCITY. SCOTTIE HOSPITAL WITH APPENDIX AND AM ABSOLUTELY WITHOUT FUNDS. PLEASE DO NOT ASK OBERS COOPERATION

  SCOTT

  JUL 4 730A.

  TO: Harold Ober

  July 13, 1939

  Wire. Lilly Library

  Van Nuys, California

  STILL FLABBERGASTED AT YOUR ABRUPT CHANGE IN POLICY AFTER 20 YEARS ESPECIALLY WITH STORY IN YOUR HANDS STOP MY COMMERCIAL VALUE CANT HAVE SUNK FROM 60 THOUSAND TO NOTHING BECAUSE OF A SLOW HEALING LUNG CAVITY STOP AFTER 30 PICTURE OFFERS DURING THE MONTHS I WAS IN BED SWANSON NOW PROMISES NOTHING FOR ANOTHER WEEK STOP CANT YOU ARRANGE A FEW HUNDRED ADVANCE FROM A MAGAZINE SO I CAN EAT TODAY AND TOMORROW STOP WONT YOU WIRE

  SCOTT

  TO: Arnold Gingrich

  July 1939

  ALS, 1 p. Princeton University

  Dear Arnold:

  My account books are on their way out here and Ive forgotten what you used to pay me for stories. Anyhow will you credit these1 against my balance and airmail me how much that leaves? (also whether you like the stories)?

  One more thing—and here I’m intruding into your province. Both these stories depend on surprise as much as an old O. Henry did—and sometimes your editors give away what used to be called the “jist” in the top caption. I know for some pieces that’s advisable—here it would be absolutely fatal. Could you note this on the stories?

  With thanks and best wishes

  Scott Fitzgerald

  Excuse pencil but this is one of those days. The stories are shorter than I thought but I’d made a last cut.

  TO: Arnold Gingrich

  July 17, 1939

  Wire. University of Michigan

  BEEN SICK IN BED FOUR MONTHS AND WRITTEN AMONG OTHER THINGS TWO GOOD SHORT STORIES ONE 2300 WORDS AND 1800 BOTH TYPED AND READY FOR AIR MAIL STOP WOULD LIKE TO GIVE YOU FIRST LOOK AND AT SAME TIME TOUCH YOU FOR 100 WIRED TO BANK OF AMERICA CULVERCITY CALIFORNIA STOP EVEN IF ONLY ONE SUITED YOU I WOULD STILL BE FINANCIALLY ADVANCE IN YOUR BOOKS PLEASE WIRE IMMEDIATELY 5521 AMESTOY AVENUE ENCINO CALIFORNIA AS AM RETURNING STUDIO MONDAY MORNING

  THAT GHOST SCOTT FITZGERALD.

  Harold Ober’s refusal to resume advances resulted in a permanent break between Fitzgerald and his agent in 1939 (Princeton University).

  TO: Kenneth Littauer1

  TLS, 3 pp. New York Public Library

  July

  18

  1939

  Dear Kenneth:—

  I was of course delighted to finish off the Civil War story2 to your satisfaction at last—I may say to my satisfaction also, because the last version felt right. And after twenty months of moving pictures it was fun to be back at prose-writing again. That has been the one bright spot in a situation you may have heard of from Harold Ober: that I have been laid up and writing in bed since the first of May, and I am only just up and dressed.

  As I told your Mr. Wilkinson when he telephoned, the first thing I did when I had to quit pictures for awhile was to block out my novel (a short one the size of Gatsby) and made the plan on a basis of 2500 word units. The block-out is to be sure that I can take it up or put it down in as much time as is allowed between picture work and short stories. I will never again sign a long picture contract, no matter what the inducement: most of the profit when one overworks goes to doctors and nurses.

  Meanwhile I am finishing a 4500-word piece designed for your pages. It should go off to you airmail Saturday night because I am going back to the studios for a short repair job Monday.

  I would like to send the story directly to you, which amounts to a virtual split with Ober. This is regrettable after twenty years of association but it had better be masked under the anonymity of “one of those things.” Harold is a fine man and has been a fine agent and the fault is mine. Through one illness he backed me with a substantial amount of money (all paid back to him now with Hollywood gold), but he is not prepared to do that again with growing boys to educate—and, failing this, I would rather act for a while as my own agent in the short story, just as I always have with Scribner’s. But I much prefer, both for his sake and mine, that my sending you the story direct should be a matter between you and me. For the fact to reach him through your office might lead to an unpleasant cleavage of an old relationship. I am writing him later in the week making the formal break on terms that will be understood between us, and I have no doubt that in some ways he will probably welcome it. Relationships have an unfortunate way of wearing out, like most things in this world.

  Would you be prepared, in return for an agreement or contract for first look at the novel and at a specified number of short stories in a certain time, to advance me $750, by wire on receipt of this letter—which will be even before the story reaches you Monday? This is a principal factor in the matter at the moment as these three months of illness have got me into a mess with income tax and insurance problems. When you get this, will you wire me Yes or No, because if you can’t, I can probably start studio work Friday. This may be against your general principles—from my angle I am offering you rather a lot for no great sum.

  Ever yours with best wishes,

  Scott Fitzgerald

  P.S. If this meets your favorable consideration the money should be wired to the Bank of America, Culver City. If not would you wire me an answer anyhow because my determination to handle my magazine relationship myself is quite final.

  The novel will run just short of 50,000 words

  5521 Amestoy Avenue

  Encino, California

  TO: Maxwell Perkins

  CC, 2 pp. Princeton University

  July

  19

  1939

  Dear Max:—

  I expected to go to work last Wednesday and have been offered two jobs and had to turn them down—though there is no connection with the old fairy tale of the man who always started looking for a certain kind of game immediately after it passed out of his sight. I can do any kind of work except (a) the kind with
producers who work all night which the doctor says is absolutely out, and (b) stories of the Tarzan and Mark of Zorro persuasion which require the practically stationary brain. I am even strong enough to work within the studio walls now and it is a question of days until a romantic comedy or a boy-and-girl story shows up.

  The main point of this letter is confidential for the most important reasons. Harold Ober and I are parting company. Whether he is throwing me over or me him may be a subject of controversy—but not on my part. I think he is doing it even if Madame Ober uses me for the rest of her life as an example of gross ingratitude. She was very kind in taking Scottie during many of the intervals between vacations from camp and school in ’35 and ’36 when I was so ill—I have always wanted to do something for her boys in return. Also I shall be forever grateful to Harold for his part of the help in backing me through that long illness, but his attitude has changed and I tell you this without any anger, but after a month’s long and regretful consideration. He is a single-tracked man and the feeling that he once had of definite interest combined with forgiveness of my sins, has changed to a sort of general disapproval and a vague sense that I am through—this in spite of the fact that I paid him over ten thousand dollars in commissions in the last year-and-a half and refunded the whole thirteen thousand that I owed him.

  I think something to do with it is the fact that almost every time I have come to New York lately I have just taken Zelda somewhere and have gone on more or less of a binge, and he has formed the idea that I am back in the mess of three years ago.

  Anyhow, it is impossible to continue a relation which has become so strained and difficult. Even though there has been no spoken impoliteness there is a new fashion of discussing my stories as if he was a rather dissatisfied and cranky editor and of answering telegrams with delayed airmails and, most of all, completely changing his old policy of backing me up to the limit of what the next story will probably be sold for which makes it impossible to go on. He fairly earned the fifty thousand dollars or so of commissions that I’ve paid him and nothing snows one under quicker than a send of disbelief and disillusion in anyone close. The final touch was when I had to sell two stories to Esquire at $250., when I wanted cash quick—one of them was worth at least $1000., from Liberty if he could have given me enough advance to survive the wait.

  So while I feel regret I have no moral compunction. This is a matter of survival. A man lost in the Arctic for the second time cannot sit waiting while a former rescuer refuses to send out another relief expedition. I would rather deal personally with the editors, as I deal always with you, and get opinions at the source. Harold’s greatest help was when I lived in Europe. As you know we have never been very close either intellectually or emotionally (save for his kindness to Scottie). . . 1 I stuck with him, of course, when he left Reynolds, but now he has many correct and conventional Agatha Christies, etc., on his list who never cause any inconvenience, so I doubt if I will be missed.

  I thought you should know this—know also that he has always treated me fairly and generously and is above reproach as an agent. The blame which brought about this situation is entirely mine. But it is no such illogical step as the one which made Tom Wolfe leave Scribner’s. A few weeks ago when three Fitzgeralds at once were in the hands of the medical profession he found it inconvenient to help and under the circumstances of the last year and a half the episode served to give me a great uncertainty as to his caring what becomes of me.

  Above all things I wish you wouldn’t discuss this with him. I have not, nor will ever say, nor could say anything against him either personally or professionally, but even the fact that I have discussed the matter with you might upset him and give him ideas that I had, and turn what should be a peaceful cleavage into an unpleasant affair.

  I am better day by day and long only to make some picture money and get back to the novel.

  Ever your friend,

  5521 Amestoy Avenue

  Encino, California

  TO: Harold Ober

  TL (CC), 2 pp. Princeton University

  July 19 1939

  Dear Harold:—

  This is not a request for any more backing—there will be no more requests. I am quite sure you would be as stubborn in any decision that I am through as you were up to 1934 about the value of my stories. Also I am writing this letter with, I hope, no touch of unpleasantness—simply from a feeling that perhaps you share, that I have depended too long on backing and had better find out at the source whether my products are considered deficient and why.

  As I said in my telegram, the shock wasn’t so much at your refusal to lend me a specific sum, because I know the demands on you and that you may not have felt able to do so at that time—it was rather “the manner of the doing”, your sudden change of policy in not lending me up to the limit of what a story would sell for, a custom which had obtained between us for over a dozen years. The consequence here is of little interest now—I turned down several picture offers under the conviction that you could tide me over until I got through to a magazine (and this a few months after telling me there was no hurry about paying back that money and just after a year and a half during which I paid your firm over ten thousand dollars in commissions and you personally thirteen thousand dollars in advances.) Sick as I was I would have taken those offers rather than go along on two loans which melted immediately into medical bills and has left me most of the past seven weeks with bank balances of between eighty and fourteen dollars.

  You were not here; long distance calls are unsatisfactory and telegrams suddenly did not deserve more than an airmail answer from you so I had no choice but to come to the conclusion that you were through with me in a big way. I repeat, I don’t blame you. Every time I’ve come East I have gone on a binge, most often after a time with Zelda, and the last time I brought a good deal of inconvenience into your settled life. Though you were very nice and polite about it (and I can scarcely remember twice in our relations when there has been any harshness between us—certainly never any harsh feeling on my side) and my unwritten debt to you is terribly large and I shall always be terribly aware of it—your care and cherishing of Scottie during the intervals between school and camp in those awful sick years of ’35 and ’36. I have wanted someday to be able to repay that to your boys with the same instinct that made me want to give the little Finney girl a trip out here.

  But Harold, I must never again let my morale become as shattered as it was in those black years—and the situation resolves itself into this: it is as if a man had once trekked up into the Arctic to save a partner and his load, and then when the partner became lost a second time, the backer was not able or willing to help him get out. It doesn’t diminish the lost man’s gratitude for former favors, but rather than perish, he must find his own way out—and quickly. I had to sell a 2400 word story to Esquire1 that I think Liberty would have paid a thousand for because three Fitzgeralds needed surgeons, psychiatrists and T.B. doctors and medicines at the same time.

  I feel less hesitation in saying this because it is probably what you wanted for some time. You now have plenty of authors who produce correctly and conduct their affairs in a business-like manner. On the contrary, I have a neurosis about anyone’s uncertainty about my ability that has been a principal handicap in the picture business. And secondly, the semi-crippled state into which I seem to get myself sometimes (almost like the hero of my story “Financing Finnegan”) fill me, in the long nights, with a resentment toward the absurd present which is not fair to you or to the past. Everything I have ever done or written is me, and who doesn’t choose to accept the whole cannot but see the wisdom of a parting. One doesn’t change at 42 though one can grow more tired and even more acquiescent—and I am very close to knowing how you feel about it all: I realize there is little place in this tortured world for any exhibition of shattered nerves or anything that illness makes people do.

  So goodbye and I won’t be ridiculous enough to thank you again. Nothing would eve
r make me forget your many kindnesses and the good times and laughs we have had together. With very best to Ann and the children.

  Ever yours, gratefully,

  P.S. I know you are not worrying about the $500., but I will pay you out of the first money I make, which probably won’t be long now.

  5521 Amestoy Avenue

  Encino, California

  TO: Kenneth Littauer

  Late July? 1939

  CC, 1 p. Princeton University

  Dear Kenneth:—

  Here’s another Hollywood story. It is absolutely true to Hollywood as I see it. Asking you to read it I want to get two things clear. First, that it isn’t particularly likely that I’ll write a great many more stories about young love. I was tagged with that by my first writings up to 1925. Since then I have written stories about young love. They have been done with increasing difficulty and increasing insincerity. I would either be a miracle man or a hack if I could go on turning out an identical product for three decades.

  I know that is what’s expected of me, but in that direction the well is pretty dry and I think I am much wiser in not trying to strain for it but rather to open up a new well, a new vein. You see, I not only announced the birth of my young illusions in “This Side of Paradise” but pretty much the death of them in some of my last Post stories like “Babylon Revisited.” Lorrimer seemed to understand this in a way. Nevertheless, an overwhelming number of editors continue to associate me with an absorbing interest in young girls—an interest that at my age would probably land me behind the bars.

  I have a daughter. She is very smart; she is very pretty; she is very popular. Her problems seem to me to be utterly dull and her point of view completely uninteresting. In other words, she is exactly what I was once accused of being—callow. Moreover she belongs to a very overstimulated and not really adventurous generation—a generation that has been told the price of everything as well as its value. I once tried to write about her. I couldn’t.