With a re-imagining of the Jazz Age taking place, it is time to turn to a 1920s terrace…

Picture Gatsby, if indeed Gatsby had summered on the Adriatic….strolling past these pillars in a sharp suit and Panama hat, perhaps launching an intimate summer soiree for a hundred or two guests. 

Hvar was only beginning to become a summer destination when this bathhouse arrived on the scene in the late 1920s.  A fresh destination, a novel building, an era of excess ….you can almost smell the local lavender, mingled with salt, as you recline in a deckchair and observe the nearby islands.

 ©SBell and Stepping back in style 2013. All rights reserved.

This Victor Hugo novel has been made and re-made numerous times for animated film, comedic adaptations and TV series, but what about a major picture, similar to ‘Les Misérables’ (2012)?  We have French film of 1956 and American versions of 1923 and 1939, but, surely, film ‘technology’ is now advanced enough to enable the portrayal of Quasimodo to be as realistic as possible. Sinister Notre-Dame of 1830s can be brought to life, and because of its linear, well defined plot, the novel would make a great film full of romance, action and mystery. Archdeacon Claude Frollo is a truly fascinating character and would make great character study in the film, being quite kind, benevolent and extremely intelligent in his youth, and rising up to become a man torn by carnal desires.

2. The Beautiful and Damned (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

This novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald can be perfect for the screen, and it is a wonder why it has only been adapted twice so far – in 1922 (upon the release of the novel itself) – and only recently by Australia, a film which proved to be a financial and cinematographic disaster. The Beautiful and the Damned tells of Anthony and Gloria Patch, a beautiful and rich couple who represent the ‘elite’ of 1920s in New York City. Careless and immature about their wealth, they host parties every night, quite unaware that their fortune is about to run out, and the war is on their doorstep. Like ‘The Great Gatsby’ this film could contain some stunning visuals of the rich enjoying their money and freedom, while at the same time reminiscing Mendes’ adaptation of  Richard Yates’ novel ‘The Revolutionary Road’ (2008); about a young couple realising only too late the fragility of their dreams.

3. The Quadroon (Mayne Reid)

Written by Maybe Reid in 1856, the Quadroon is a gripping adventure novel of young who falls in love with beautiful, but enslaved quadroon girl in the South of the US. Their journey to claim her freedom is full of adventure, romance and hidden dangers, perfect for the big screen (especially now after the audience came to grips with Tarantino’s ‘Django Unchained’ (2012) and all its racist references).

4. The Stranger (Albert Camus)

While we saw the adaptation of Kafka’s ‘The Trial’ in 1962 by no other than Orson Welles, we are yet to see the adaptation of ‘The Stranger’  by Albert Camus, a philosophical, existentialist novel which is filled with – guess what? …indifference as to the state of the outside world, silent despair and rebellion, murder scenes, romance, legal injustice and moral retribution. Since the success of the film ‘Woman in the Dunes’ (1964), which shows the allegory of human existence, we still await the breakthrough of experimental cinematography in this genre. Surely, ‘The Stanger’ is bound to be more ‘filmogenic’ than Kafka’s ‘The Metamorphosis’.

5. The Captain’s Daughter (Alexander Pushkin)

This historic novel is not known by many, and it’s a shame. Russian writer and poet, Pushkin published this novel in 1836 and it depicts Pyotr Andreyich Grinyov and his life as a soldier. Pyotr’s life turns upside down when he falls in love with the beautiful daughter of the Captain, Masha Mironova. The novel encapsulates many things which look particularly good on screen: romance and its tragedy, the revolution, one-on-one duals, etc.

6. The Bonfire of the Vanities (Tom Wolfe)

This novel written by Tom Wolfe in 1987 depicts the life of Sherman McCoy, a wealthy bond trader in New York whose auto accident sets the chain of events which ‘shakes’ NY City to its very core. Portraying the NY of 1980s and the new ‘elites’ lavish but reckless lifestyles with utmost style, and with reference to the social divide between rich and poor, racism, journalists’ ethics, and much more, this novel seems perfect for the big screen. However, the fact that previous adaptation with Tom Hanks, Bruce Willis and Melanie Griffith (1990) proved to be an absolute commercial and critical flop seems to scare directors and scriptwriters of today from ever considering a remake.

7. Invisible Man (Ralph Ellison)

In this novel a black man tells the story of his difficult life in the South of the US during 1930s and thereafter. Starting as a bright student in college, driving wealthy white trustees around campuses, he slowly progresses to become a great orator, and a member of the Brotherhood, an organisation which allegedly works to help oppressed people in town. The book identifies and depicts issues related to social struggle, unemployment, racism, identity, and many others, and would have looked good had it made into a film. As Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ (1852) it may have been banned for its controversial views at the time, but it surely deserves a voice now. The novel contains too many ‘filmogenic’ encounters and scenes to ignore, e.g. the violent death of the black youth leader, handsome and intelligent Tod Clifton, during a minor riot.

8. Bleak House (Charles Dickens)

Ok, this novel by Dickens may not be the easiest to convey to the screen (there is a TV series), for example as a result of an uneven, sometimes abrupt, plot line, but ‘Bleak House’ remains a gripping and heart-warming novel which will look splendid on big screen. The novel contains well-defined, interesting characters, some of whom are wild and eccentric, touches of true romance and a gripping mystery, all playing out on the background of 1830s ‘legal’ London.

9. Traps (Friedrich Duerrenmatt)

Psychologically intense and thought-provoking, this story is about a salesman, Alfredo Traps who is drawn to play in a mock trial by six strangers when his vehicle breaks down. This mini-masterpiece would look particularly good on screen, with thrilling twists and turns as the main character slowly nears his doom.

10. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain)

With numerous TV adaptations and short musical films ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ is covered well, but it surely deserves more, and the novel would have been a very fine children’s major film. The romance between Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher is touching sometimes, and their adventure in McDougal’s cave would be great on big screen provided there is suitable cast. Tom’s other affairs and his friendship with Huckleberry Finn are also fascinating. Here is the novel with play fighting, mystery and childhood romance in it, which could have looked great if done right.

“The Great Gatsby has become Fitzgerald’s most famous work. However, when the book was first published, it was not considered a success. Fitzgerald felt the lack of commercial appeal was due to the novel’s slim size. He felt audiences preferred longer, weightier works.” (Source: Bright Hub Education)

Do you know any other interesting facts about Fitzgerald?

Ahh os anos 20! Que glamour!  Não é o primeiro filme, tem uns 3 pra trás e com certeza o livro é MUITO melhor, mas o visual – pelo menos pra mim- agrada e muito! Tem Miu Miu e Prada, tem luuxxx, tem romance. Já vale!
Informação útil!
“O Grande Gatsby (The Great Gatsby) é um romance escrito pelo autor americano F.Scott Fitzgerald e publicado pela primeira vez em 1925. A história passa-se em Nova Iorque e na cidade de Long Island, durante o verão de 1922 é uma crítica ao “Sonho Americano”.

O livro não se popularizou logo na sua primeira edição, vendendo menos de 25.000 cópias durante os 15 anos restantes da vida de seu autor.

Virou peça de teatro, filmes variados e agora filme de novo, além de ser considerado o segundo lugar no top 100 das melhores novelas do século XX, óh!” – veio do wikpédia.

“It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald- This side of paradise

It was May of my senior year in college.  Everybody was coasting, knowing either what they were going to be doing the next year, or that they’d be doing nothing.  Except for one guy, Tom.

Tom had been accepted at medical school–Harvard, no less–so his future was pretty much mapped out for him, assuming he graduated from college first.  Med schools are funny that way.  They make you dot your “i’s” and cross your “t’s” before they let you cut body parts off cadavers and stick them in the purses of the placement office secretaries.

Fitzgerald:  “The road to med school goes through me.”

And so as we assembled for one of our last nights of drug-enhanced conviviality, we felt a general sense of relief and anticipation–except for Tom, whose face was clouded by a look that suggested he had a lot of work left to do.

“What’s eating you?” somebody finally asked.

 ”I need to finish one course in the humanities to graduate,” he said.

“So–what’s the big deal?” came the question from one to whom a course in literature was a day at the beach.

“I need to write a paper on The Great Gatsby,” Tom said.

“Christ, I’ve probably read that book for three courses the past four years,” said somebody else.

“Well I haven’t,” Tom said.

“Haven’t what?” I asked.  “Haven’t read it three times?”

“Haven’t read it at all,” Tom said sheepishly.

Like many pre-med students, Tom had spent so much time taking organic chemistry and other hard science courses that he hadn’t had time to take any electives to round out his personality, and his heavy load of classes, labs, shooting pool, going to the race track and Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park and staying up all night playing poker had left him little time to read for pleasure.

“You’ve only got, like, two days, right?” a guy named Alan asked.

“One,” Tom replied, like a prisoner on death row who’s just finished his last meal.

A collective gulp of five Adam’s apples was heard.  “You have to read it and write a paper about it . . . tonight?“

He was silent for a moment.  “You got it.”

The gloom that had, just a moment before, been one man’s burden spread like a contagious disease on the wings of a sneeze.  We all felt terrible for Tom, but we were on the South Side of Chicago, home of Saul Alinsky, inspiration to generations of radicals and later even a President of the United States!

Saul Alinsky

What we had learned from the example of Alinsky was that there was a time for talk, and a time for radical social action to improve the everyday lives of ordinary people.  We looked at each other and at Tom’s downcast head and as if by telepathy, formed a common purpose.

“We’ll help you write your paper!” someone said emphatically.

“Yeah–all of us–together!” said another.

“Guys–I couldn’t ask you to . . .” Tom began, but I cut him off.  “You were there for me in Rocks and Stars,” the elementary science course for English majors, I said.  “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten that B that kept my grade point average where it needs to be in case I ever figure out what I’m going to do with my life.”

“You gotta work the shirt scene in there somewhere.”

Tom looked around the room and we could see his eyes misting over.  “You–you guys would do that for me?” he asked, a lump in his throat.

“You’d do it for us, if you’d read the book and we hadn’t and we had screwed around like you and left the paper to the last minute,” somebody said.

By now Tom’s eyes were red.  “You guys–you’re the greatest!” he said.  He’d had a few beers.

“C’mon,” a guy named Bates said.  “No time for emoting–we’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

As the only guy in the room who had mastered touch typing, I was assigned the role of scrivener.  I loaded a manual typewriter with a sheet of white paper, rolled it up, and centered it for the title.

“Okay–’The Great Gatsby–colon,” I said.  “What comes next, and it has to be a question.”

“Why’s that?” Tom asked.

“Because if it’s a question, you don’t have to have a thesis,” Bates said.  “You’re just raising an issue . . . ”

” . . . for consideration by future generations of scholars,” said a guy named Jack.

“Uh, let’s see–Threat or Menace?” I offered.

“Too sociological.  How about–’Process or Event’?” Jack suggested.

“You used that for your Haymarket Anarchist Bombing paper,” Bates said.  “What about–’Icon or Shibboleth’?”

“Great,” I said and typed it in.  “Okay–we’ve got to be organized, otherwise you’re going to drive me crazy,” I said.  “We’ll go around the room–Russian Roulette style–and take turns.  One sentence per person, then on to the next–okay?”

“I’m in,” said Bates, as he put on the Jefferson Airplane’s “Crown of Creation” album at a volume just slightly below the level that would attract the attention of a resident assistant.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Tom said.  “Don’t we have to like–concentrate?”

“Dude, you took too many science classes,” Bates said.  “This is how creative-types do their thing.”

“First sentence–somebody, anybody,” I called out.  Bates had already inhaled a reefer on the quad below, so his creative juices were flowing freely.

“Uh, ‘The Great Gatsby is a seminal work that calls attention to, and plays upon, class distinctions that are customarily submerged beneath the surface in America due to the leveling pressure of democratic principles.’”

“Great start!” I exclaimed as I tapped out the opening lines.  “Next.”

“The narrator, young Nick Carraway, serves as the . . . uh . . . sounding board for Fitzgerald’s critique of the American dream, as he is alternately attracted to and repulsed by the materialism with which Gatsby has surrounded himself,” Alan said.

“Got it–who’s next?”

“I guess me,” Jack said.  ‘Carraway is sucked into’ . . .”

“Scratch that,” Bates said.  “Not high-toned enough.  Say ‘Carraway is drawn into Gatsby’s life’–something like that.”

“Okay,” Jack said, a little peevishly I thought.  Pride of authorship.  “‘Carraway is drawn into Gatsby’s life because he is second cousin to Daisy Buchanan, whom Gatsby desires because she is from a social class above his, and thus unattainable.”

I looked over at Tom as I typed and noticed that his mouth was hanging open.  “You guys are–incredible!” he said, a big smile on his face.

“Why don’t you take a turn?” Bates asked, as he passed the joint to Tom.

“Me?  But . . . I only read the first chapter!”

“That’s enough man–go ahead,” Bates said.  “Give it a shot!”

Tom inhaled, held his breath for a moment, then opened his mouth to allow the smoke to escape, along with these words.  “In this respect, Daisy represents the American Dream, always luring us onward, always receding as we draw near it.”

Arnold Rothstein, fictionalized as Meyer Wolfsheim

“See–you don’t need to read the book,” I said.  “It’s in the air you breathe.”

We continued in that vein for several hours until we had collectively banged out three pages–double-spaced, inch-and-a-half margins–of the most bogus symbol-spotting literary claptrap that likely ever issued from the mind of an American undergraduate.  As we wrapped things up with the obligatory analytical pecking and poking at the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock, I pulled the last sheet of paper out of the typewriter, and everyone gathered around to admire our work.

“You know,” Bates said as took a final hit on what was left of the joint, “it’s true what they say about art having a cathartic effect.”

“Yeah,” Tom said.  He was a little blissed out, but recovered enough to realize he may have missed something.  “What exactly does that mean?”

“I dunno,” Bates said.  “But it sounded good.”

The Life and Times of Francis Scott Fitzgerald

What prompts me to post now is that I’ve just discovered that personal ledger of Fitzgerald has been put online. The site features scanned pages of the document itself in his own handwriting – not always easy to read, and reassuring that he was an even worse speller than me! But still an interesting archive. Some pages feature his accounts, showing how his income from writing steadily rose. But there is also personal stuff in there too.

I strongly recommend anyone interested not only in Fitzgerald, but writing in general to get over to 
http://library.sc.edu/digital/collections/fitzledger.html

Napoleon to Josephine

Dec. 29, 1795

I awake all filled with you. Your image and the intoxicating pleasures of last night, allow my senses no rest.

Sweet and matchless Josephine, how strangely you work upon my heart.

Are you angry with me? Are you unhappy? Are you upset?

My soul is broken with grief and my love for you forbids repose. But how can I rest any more, when I yield to the feeling that masters my inmost self, when I quaff from your lips and from your heart a scorching flame?

Yes! One night has taught me how far your portrait falls short of yourself!

You start at midday: in three hours I shall see you again.

Till then, a thousand kisses, mio dolce amor! but give me none back for they set my blood on fire.

Ludwig von Beethoven to Unamed Woman 1812

My angel, my all, my very self

We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life -

If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these.

My heart is full of so many things to say to you – ah – there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all –Cheer up – remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours.

Ah, wherever I am, there you are also –

Much as you love me – I love you more –

Oh God – so near! so far!

Is not our love truly a heavenly structure, and also as firm as the vault of heaven?

my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us -

I can live only wholly with you or not at all –

No one else can ever possess my heart – never – never -

Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves.

Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together -

Be calm – love me – today – yesterday – what tearful longings for you – you – you – my life – my all – farewell.

Oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.

ever thine

ever mine

ever ours

Your faithful Ludwig

Mary Wordsworth to William
Wordsworth

August 1, 1810

Oh My William! it is not in my power to tell thee
how I have been
affected by this dearest of all letters – it was
so unexpected – so
new a thing to see the breathing of thy inmost
heart upon paper that I
was quite overpowered, & now that I sit down to
answer thee in the
lonliness & depth of that love which unites us &
which cannot be felt
but by ourselves, I am so agitated & my eyes are
so bedimmed that I
scarely know how to proceed…

Jane Clairmont to Lord Byron 1815

You bid me write short to you and I have much to
say. You also bade me believe that it was a fancy
which made me cherish an attachment for you. It
cannot be a fancy since you have been for the last
year the object upon which every solitary moment
led me to muse.

I do not expect you to love me, I am not worthy of
your love. I feel you are superior, yet much to my
surprise, more to my happiness, you betrayed
passions I had believed no longer alive in your bosom.

Shall I also have to ruefully experience the want
of happiness? Shall I reject it when it is
offered? I may appear to you imprudent, vicious;
my opinions detestable, my theory depraved; but
one thing, at least, time shall show you: that I
love gently and with affection, that I am
incapable of anything approaching to the feeling
of revenge or malice; I do assure you, your future
will shall be mine, and everything you shall do or
say, I shall not question.

Lord Byron to Theresa

25 August, 1819

My dearest Teresa,

I have read this book in your garden;–my love,
you were absent, or else I could not have read it.
It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer
was a friend of mine. You will not understand
these English words, and others will not
understand them,–which is the reason I have not
scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize
the handwriting of him who passionately loved you,
and you will divine that, over a book which was
yours, he could only think of love.

In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most
so in yours–Amor mio–is comprised my existence
here and hereafter. I feel I exist here, and I
feel I shall exist hereafter,–to what purpose you
will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you
are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of
a convent.I love you, and you love me,–at least,
you say so, and act as if you did so, which last
is a great consolation in all events.

But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love
you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and
ocean divide us,but they never will, unless you
wish it.

Juliette Drouet to Victor Hugo 1835

Friday 8 p.m.

If only I were a clever woman, I could describe to you my gorgeous bird, how you unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage, and song!

I would tell you that you are the greatest marvel of all ages, and I should only be speaking the simple truth. But to put all this into suitable words, my superb one, I should require a voice far more harmonious than that which is bestowed upon my species –

I will not tell you to what degree you are dazzling and to the birds of sweet song who, as you know, are none the less beautiful and appreciative.

I love you, I love you. My Victor; I can not reiterate it too often; I can never express it as much as I feel it.

I recognise you in all the beauty that surrounds me in form, in colour, in perfume, in harmonious sound: all of these mean you to me. You are superior to all. I see and admire – you are all!

You are not only the solar spectrum with the seven luminous colours, but the sun himself, that illumines, warms, and revivifies! This is what you are, and I am the lowly woman that adores you.

Pierre Curie to Marie Curie

August 10, 1894

Nothing could have given me greater pleasure that to get news of you. The prospect of remaining two months without hearing about you had been extremely disagreeable to me: that is to say, your little note was more than welcome.

I hope you are laying up a stock of good air and that you will come back to us in October. As for me, I think I shall not go anywhere; I shall stay in the country, where I spend the whole day in front of my open window or in the garden.

We have promised each other — haven’t we? — to be at least great friends. If you will only not change your mind! For there are no promises that are binding; such things cannot be ordered at will. It would be a fine thing, just the same, in which I hardly dare believe, to pass our lives near each other, hypnotized by our dreams: your patriotic dream, our humanitarian dream, and our scientific dream.

Of all those dreams the last is, I believe, the only legitimate one. I mean by that that we are powerless to change the social order and, even if we were not, we should not know what to do; in taking action, no matter in what direction, we should never be sure of not doing more harm than good, by retarding some inevitable evolution. From the scientific point of view, on the contrary, we may hope to do something; the ground is solider here, and any discovery that we may make, however small, will remain acquired knowledge.

See how it works out: it is agreed that we shall be great friends, but if you leave France in a year it would be an altogether too Platonic friendship, that of two creatures who would never see each other again. Wouldn’t it be better for you to stay with me? I know that this question angers you, and that you don’t want to speak of it again — and then, too, I feel so thoroughly unworthy of you from every point of view.

I thought of asking your permission to meet you by chance in Fribourg. But you are staying there, unless I am mistaken, only one day, and on that day you will of course belong to our friends the Kovalskis.

Believe me your very devoted
Pierre Curie

Franz Kafka to Felice

March 6 to 7, 1913

No, that is not enough for me. I asked if it wasn’t above all compassion that you felt for me. And I justified my question. All you say is: No. But I really was a different person when I wrote that first letter, a carbon copy of which (it is the only letter I have a copy of) I found a few days ago during a perfunctory tidying up of my desk (which never gets tidied in any other way). I was different, this you cannot deny, and even if I had occasional lapses, I could easily find my way back. Have I been misleading you then, right up to these unhappy times? There are only two possibilities: either you feel nothing but compassion for me, in which case why do I insist upon your love, obstruct your every course, force you to write and think of me every day, tyrannize you with a helpless man’s helpless love? Why, instead, don’t I try to find a way of gently helping you to free yourself from me, of quietly by myself savoring the knowledge of your compassion for me, and thus at least becoming worthy of that compassion? The second possibility is that compassion is not exclusively what you feel for me; rather that you have been misled during the past six months; you lack true insight into my wretched personality, disregard my confessions, and unconsciously prevent yourself from believing in them, although this would be very much against your nature. In that case, why don’t I do everything in my power to make the situation perfectly clear to you? Why don’t I choose the plainest, shortest words that can be neither disregarded, misunderstood, nor forgotten? Could it be that I still have some hope, or am toying with the hope, of being able to keep you? If this be so, and it sometimes seems to be, then it would be my duty to step out of myself and quite ruthlessly defend you against myself.

However, there is yet a third possibility: that compassion may not be exclusively what you feel for me, and you may even have a perfect understanding of my present state, but may think that at some time I might yet turn into a useful human being with whom a steady, calm, lively relationship would be possible. If this is what you think, you are under a terrible misapprehension; as I have told you before, my present state (and today it is comparative paradise) is not an exceptional state. Don’t succumb, Felice, to these misapprehensions! Not for 2 days could you live beside me. I received a letter today from an 18-year-old schoolboy whom I have met 2 or 3 times at Baum’s. At the end of the letter he calls himself my “very obedient disciple.” I feel sick at the thought of it. What a preposterous notion! I can never tear myself open wide enough to people to reveal everything and so frighten them away. To which of course I must add that even if I were a hero, I should want to frighten the schoolboy away, because I don’t like him (probably on account of his youth), whereas I should want to drag you, eternally dearest, down to the dreadful decrepitude that I represent.

Franz

Zelda To Scott Fitzgerald February 1920

Darling Heart, our fairy tale is almost ended, and we’re going to marry and live happily ever afterward just like the princess in her tower who worried you so much – and made me so very cross by her constant recurrence – I’m so sorry for all the times I’ve been mean and hateful – for all the miserable minutes  I’ve caused you when we could have been so happy. You deserve so much – so very much – I think our life together will be like these last four days – and I do want to marry you – even if you do think I dread it – I wish you hadn’t said that – I’m not afraid of anything. To be afraid a person has either to be a coward or very great and big. I am neither. Besides, I know you can take much better care of me than I can, and I’ll always be very, very happy with you – except sometimes when we engage in our weekly debates – and even then I rather enjoy myself. I like being very calm and masterful, while you become emotional and sulky. I don’t care whether you think so or not – I do. [...] Sweetheart – I miss you so. I love you so – and next time I’m going back with you – I’m absolutely nothing without you – just the doll that I should have been born. You’re a necessity and a luxury and a darling precious lover – and you’re going to be a husband to your wife.

Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera 1940

Diego, my love,

Remember that once you finish the fresco we will be together forever once and for all, without arguments or anything, only to love one another.

Behave yourself and do everything that Emmy Lou tells you.

I adore you more than ever. Your girl, Frida

(Write me)

Charlie Parker to Chan Woods

To you;

The way I thought was wrong, having not known, it was right. Here is the proof of my feelings, Don’t hate me, love me forever: — — — —

Beautiful is the world, slow is one to take advantage. Wind up the world the other way. And at the start of the turning of the earth, lie my feelings for thou.

To you
Shame on me.
I love you.

Richard Burton to Elizabeth Taylor 1964

My blind eyes are desperately waiting for the sight of you. You don’t realize of course, E.B., how fascinatingly beautiful you have always been, and how strangely you have acquired an added and special and dangerous loveliness.

Il Film, diretto da David Fincher, è ispirato al racconto omonimo di Scott Fitzgerald.
Se non lo avere ancora visto ve lo consiglio, a me è piaciuto molto.
“Benjamin nasce il giorno della fine della prima guerra mondiale. E’ appena nato, ma ha una salute da novantenne: artrite, cataratta, sordità. La madre muore dandolo alla luce ed il padre, disperato e spaventato, lo abbandona sulle scale di una casa di riposo, dove viene trovato e cresciuto dalla governante, la Sig.ra Queenie e da suo marito.
Secondo il medico che lo visita, Benjamin ha poche speranze di vita, invece più passa il tempo e più lui ringiovanisce.
Benjamin cresce bene tra i vecchi dell’ospizio, coccolato da tanti nonni. E’ li che conosce Daisy, la nipotina di una degli ospiti della casa di riposo e che sarà il grande amore che lo accompagnerà per tutta la vita, anche se è un amore che ha potuto vivere veramente solo all’incrociarsi delle loro età, ma che rimane sempre vivo.
E’ Daisy, che ormai anziana e in punto di morte, rivela alla figlia, ed agli spettatori, chi è realmente suo padre ed attraverso la lettura di un diario, svela la loro incredibile storia, attraversando uno spaccato di vita americana che va dagli inizi del 1900 ai giorni più recenti.
Il pensiero felice che vi dedico e che diventa un augurio per tutti voi, è racchiuso in questa citazione presa appunto dal film e che vi dedico:

“Per essere quello che vuoi essere
Non c’è limite di tempo, comincia quando vuoi.
Puoi cambiare o rimanere come sei,
non esiste una regola in questo.
Possiamo vivere ogni cosa al meglio o al peggio.
Spero che tu viva tutto al meglio.
Spero che tu possa vedere cose sorprendenti.
Spero che tu possa avere emozioni sempre nuove
Spero che tu possa incontrare gente
con punti di vista diversi.
Spero che tu possa essere orgogliosa della tua vita.
E se ti accorgi di non esserlo,
spero che tu trovi la forza di ricominciare da zero.”

1. The Great Gatsby‘s Broadway adaptation and its movie rights netted Fitzgerald more than $22,000, roughly $300,000 today.

2. Fitzgerald once participated in a gag on his Japanese butler in Connecticut, Tana, which involved sending him letters written for a spy. One of them warned him of an imminent raid by The American Legion and asked him to relay back whether Fitzgerald was killed in the process. Another asked Tana to verify whether the Fitzgerald house’s floor could hold a two-ton cannon in case of war.

3. Upon seeing The Great Gatsby manuscript for the first time, Fitzgerald’s editor at Scribners, Maxwell Perkins, thought that chapters Six and Seven lacked interest, and that Gatsby was too vague about himself and where he came from.

4. At a bar in Antibes, Fitzgerald and a friend succeeded in tying a barman to a couple of chairs to see if they could cut him in half and keep him alive. The barman made enough noise to attract the police.

Read the rest here: 9 Things You Probably Didn’t Know About The Life Of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

When she was 17 she met Scott Fitzgerald at a dance. He was in the army and was stationed in Montgomery. They were married in New York on April 3, 1920, she was only 19.

They had one child Frances Scott “Scottie” Fitzgerald, born on October 21, 1921.

Zelda had one novel,Save Me the Waltz, that was published in 1932. She had several short stories and articles published in various magazines. She was also a painter. Zelda mainly drew flowers from her childhood in Montgomery and figures. She also made paper dolls for Scottie to play with.

From 1930 to her death Zelda was in and out of various sanatoriums in Switzerland and the US. Shortly before Scott’s death in 1940 Zelda moved back to Montgomery with her mother.

On the night of March 10, 1948 Zelda was in Highland Hospital when a fire broke out. Her and many of the other patients were locked in their rooms. Zelda and eight other women perished in the flames.

Scott and Zelda are buried in Rockville, Maryland.

While I was there Baz Luhrmann and his cast & crew from his forthcoming adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s THE GREAT GATSBY took over Rockefeller Plaza one evening, starlets all a-twinkle in Tiffany jewels, entering through the Godzilla-sized gift box inside the turquoise tent, obstructing the view of that fire thief Prometheus and his golden flame.

I returned to the space a day later to see the golden boy as they struck the tent.

The giant bronze of Atlas on Fifth Avenue is quintessential NYC for me, made all-the-more familiar in pop culture memory thanks to episodes of Tina Fey’s 30 ROCK. Shouldering the weight of the world, he unwittingly assumes all of our responsibilities.

On the way to Central Park, I always spend a moment with Pomona–the figurative sculpture in the fountain at the Park Plaza Hotel–a place that continues to remind me of the scenes Fitzgerald penned about the Buchanans and Gatsby and how the summer heat reflected the growing tension between the two men who claimed to love Daisy best.

A stroll through Central Park took me to the bronze of Shakespeare, erected on April 23rd, 1864 on the 300th anniversary of his birth.

If you continue along the promenade, north through the park, you’ll eventually reach the Bethesda Arcade where I always think of Joan Didion. In her most recent memoir BLUE NIGHTS she mentions that her China pattern is the same as the Minton ceiling tiles pictured here:

And, the Bethesda Fountain itself, with the angel at the top, never fails to remind me of the scene in the musical adaptation of THE PRODUCERS by Mel Brooks where Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick splash through the water.

At the very least each visit I try to visit the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th in order to have a vodka gimlet and channel Raymond Chandler’s detective Philip Marlowe. It is, unsurprisingly, also the place where William Faulkner wrote his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, and where Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley traded quips at the legendary Round Table, commemorated  in the painting that you see at the back of the Lobby Bar:

Up until last night, the only taste the public had been offered of the much-anticipated soundtrack to Baz Luhrmann’s adaption of The Great Gatsby was a brief snippet of Jay-Z’s ’100$ Bill’ and the Florence Welch’s stunning ‘Over The Love’ (listen below). That changed when Lana Del Rey’s gorgeous ‘Young & Beautiful’ made the rounds on the internet last night.

The song was produced by the Grammy award-winning producer, Rick Nowels, whose track record would intimidate even the most seasoned of artists. The lush cut was supposedly (it’s probably just a rumour) left off her debut album, Born To Die, (read my review here) but it deserves its slot as the lead single for the soundtrack. Lana’s lyrics are tinged with ruminations on the shallowness of the American dream that Fitzgerald wrote about, with an ever-present sense of nostalgia (this was the girl who sang about blue jeans and video games).

It’s safe to say that Lana killed it. An orchestral version of the song surfaced today, and to be honest, it sounds much richer than the original. The soundtrack is due to be released on May 6th internationally and May 7th in the U.S. You automatically gain a download of Lana’s song when you preorder the album on iTunes. Have a listen to Flo’s track below:

Check out my full review of Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald on the Indigo Fiction blog, HERE!

     Money. Power. Scandal. Mystery. Basically the elements that become the solid foundation of a good story. Do not underestimate the level of difficulty for putting these four components together, it’s easy to make it a book but, it’s not exactly a walk in the park (although a good number of authors have done this to let their mind wander) to make a good book.

However, Fitzgerald’s literary skills have reached its golden peak in this very book. I sometimes wonder whether I’m enjoying the book or whether I’m just drooling over the fact that he writes with such flow, such elegance and such richness that it would not be a surprise if it  got a few nods from the kings and queens of other countries (it probably did).

The story takes us to the prosperous aristocratic area of West Egg. In the eyes of Yale graduate and World War I veteran, Nick Carraway. His neighbor, the charming, the wonderful, the great Jay Gatsby throws the most explosive of parties (which is most opportune, seeing that the book is set in the Roaring Twenties). Yet, with his piles and piles of cash, his car, his mansion and his parties comes a darker side (as we all yearn to see) of his life. Secrets and scandal that unfolds beautifully in the book.

After the first chapter, I would be amazed that the book has already spun you around and smashed you into pieces of pulp (if you seriously feel nothing, listen to the audiobook and prepare to feel your ears burst with amazement and intrigue).   I will say no more. Read it Hear it. Anything, just don’t watch the movie yet!

Getting into Literary Fiction

AnElephantCant always be factual
He suffers from a terrible affliction
By hook or by crook
He gets into a book
And rambles around in a world of pure fiction

He has daily Adventures like Tom Sawyer
Like Huck he has a lifestyle carefree
He is surprisingly healthy
Though not at all wealthy
Unlike the chap in Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby

He isn’t too keen on the ocean
Although he loves The Old Man and the Sea
But in Moby Dick
Ahab has a sharp stick
In Treasure Island Long John Silver maroons folk with glee

Here in Scotland Iain Banks has a Wasp Factory
Sir Walter tells about Ivanhoe
Conan Doyle writes the truth
About the world’s greatest sleuth
Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s Sunset Song tells of woe

In Europe Camus describes The Stranger
And long ago Virgil quilled The Aeneid
Hesse exercises the brain
Kafka drives you insane
And Voltaire just delights with Candide

AnElephantCant pretend he’s philosophical
He struggles to comprehend Sartre
Heller confuses him anew
With Catch 22
He prefers to live in a World According to Garp

And he does adore literary ladies
Like Rebecca in drear Manderley
There is meddlesome Emma
Scarlett – please don’t condemn her
And the too fickle Madame Bovary

Of course he most admires Sir Lancelot
And tough guys like Philip Marlowe
James Bond he admires
Gandalf’s magic inspires
But Tarzan is AnElephant’s top hero

]]> http://theyouthradar.com/2013/04/17/liverpool-among-host-of-clubs-chasing-millwall-starlet/ Wed, 17 Apr 2013 11:30:55 +0000 Tom Bennett http://theyouthradar.com/2013/04/17/liverpool-among-host-of-clubs-chasing-millwall-starlet/

Image: The Guardian

Liverpool are among a host of Premier League teams chasing Millwall youngster Fred Onyedinma, according to the Daily Star.

The 16-year-old midfielder has matured into a  key part of their Under 21 side this season and has also alerted Arsene Wenger.

Milwall academy boss Scott Fitzgerald told the South London Press: ”We have got a lot of good players, and he is one of them.We have had no inquiries from any other club for Fred.

“That does not mean he is not a good player. There might be people out there interested in him for all we know. But we have had no calls and nor do we want any.”

The youngster has scored twice in his previous four games for the Under 21 side.

I was prowling on Facebook when I came across a note posted by a friend a couple of years ago, thanks to Facebook regurgitating old things by one of its oft-occurring lamented rearrangements of perfectly fine profile pages according to a new user friendly design or the other. I am not too impressed with the user interface design work they are embracing, I must say. Well, enough of that. I’d never had a shine for that branch of work in the first place.  That’s good work, I am sure (not very sure).

I digress. Old note. Posted by friend. On Beatles. On Eleanor Rigby, a song that the friend felt spoke to her (of her?) the most. It took me back to the days when I had a Beatles playlist on my HTC phone (long dead, though not yet buried, and does that make a necrophiliac of me?). Eleanor Rigby was on that playlist.

Ah, look at all the lonely people.

Scott Fitzgerald was lonely too, to the point where he decided to sell his loneliness as a novel to buy his love (Zelda, Zelda) once again. It succeeded, and they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered. Such stories happen only on this side of paradise.

Sometimes, though, intimacy cannot cure loneliness. I use the wrong verb. Loneliness is as human a condition as any other. If you say you haven’t known it, that intimacy has cured you of it, you lie. There are parts in you that no intimacy will cure of loneliness.  It is the same for me.

Ah, look at all the lonely people. In our loneliness, unshared, do we find similarity, if we try. We rarely try. We exult in the supposed uniqueness of  our loneliness. What are we without our self-carved individuality? It would break us, wouldn’t it, to be thought of as mere instances of a standard template?

Ah, lonely people, where do they come from?

Where do they belong?

Look at them.

Look at your mirror.

~~~~

“Nobody understands me!” I shouted at my headmistress when I had been all of fourteen.

“No,” she said. She had been wise, though I saw that too late to build anything more than the briefest of relationships. She told me, “Nobody understands you. You won’t let them. If anyone did, it would  make you less lonely, wouldn’t it? And you wear loneliness like a mark of pride. You cling to it fiercely. I know.”

Am I lonely? Yes, some parts of my mind are lonely at times, some parts of my mind are never lonely, and some parts are lonely all the time. It took me time and thought to come to terms with it as I have. Perhaps I am not entirely aware of what this means. I hope I will one day find out. I would like to.

“It grants you a certain measure of resilience,” Mike told me when we had been walking back from the Cathedral after a visit to the Bishop there.

I don’t know if I had been lonely then, what with his reassuring presence beside me and the lingering words of goodwill spoken by the Bishop still resonating in my mind.

Mike was right. As had been Sr. Vitus. Loneliness is not a sickness to be cured, not always. Knowing how to live with it as a human condition that you can’t ever entirely get rid of, without being trapped by fear, is one of the more important lessons we learn, mostly the hard way.

No, you aren’t Eleanor Rigby, though you are lonely.

~~~~

[Rah Rah at Sunset, 11 April 2013.]

Eleanor Clay Ford wife of Edsel Bryant Ford 1916

Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald 1920

King George VI and Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon 1923

John Farrow and Maureen O’Sullivan 1936

Joan Crawford and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. 1937

Prince Edward, Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson 1937

Ingrid Bergman and Petter Aron Lindström 1937

Mary Pickford and Charles Buddy Rogers 1937

Barbara “Babe” Cushing  and Stanley Mortimer 1940

Gloria Vanderbilt and Pasquale (“Pat”) DiCicco 1941

Hedy Lamarr and John Loder 1943

Judy Garland and vincente Minelli 1945

Shirley Temple and John Agar 1945

Princess Elizabeth (later Queen Elizabeth II), and Philip, Duke of Edinburgh 1947

Elizabeth Taylor and Conrad Hilton 1950

Ava Gardner and Frank Sinatra 1951

Elizabeth Taylor and Michael Wilding 1952

Jacqueline Bouvier and John F. Kennedy 1953

Bette Davis and William Grant Sherry 1954

Audrey Hepburn and Mel Ferrer 1954

Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher 1955

Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller 1956

Grace Kelly and Rainier III, Prince of Monaco 1956

Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner 1957

Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd 1957

Jean Seberg and François Moreuil 1958

Brigitte Bardot and Jacques Charrier 1959

Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher 1959

Princess Margaret and Anthony Armstrong Jones 1960

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton 1964

Britt Ekland and Peter Sellers 1964

Mia Farrow and Frank Sinatra 1966

Raquel Welch and Patrick Curtis 1967

Elvis and Priscilla Presley 1967

John Lennon and Yoko Ono 1969

Edie Sedgewick and Michael Post 1971

Mick and Bianca Jagger 1971