|
|
Literary
Shelf
Ninety years after
Scott Fitzgerald enlisted in the US Army, and began to write earnestly, his
genius lives on…
The Fitzgerald
Magic
by Rajgopal
Nidamboor
 F.
Scott Fitzgerald was a remarkably gifted novelist, a writer par excellence
with his very own indelible stamp of dainty luminosity.
Fitzgerald’s literary magic was not just rooted in his delectable prose, or
his amazing range and versatility, but it also dwelled in his poetic
imagination, dazzling vision and seemingly effortless —and, also
transcendental — craftsmanship.
Fitzgerald's novels, and short stories, possess a sparkling depth, and an
amplified insight into the human condition — a sense of pure timelessness
and luster that transcends the bounds of fiction. Reason: they transform
external boundaries as dramatically and thoroughly as the realm within them.
Fitzgerald reflected the Jazz Age, with shrewd observation and humor,
through his stories. Take for instance, The Great Gatsby,
Fitzgerald’s classic American novel, which purposefully and seriously X-rays
the very basis of aspiration in a typically American setting. It not only
describes the US leitmotif of innate charm, excessive attention, and a seat
of festivities, but also the grotesque fusion of incongruities: an
indispensable part of the American illusion.
Both cock-a-hoop and tragic, The Great Gatsby is replete with the
sensibility, or whimsical imagery, and simple poignancy of Fitzgerald’s
psychological observation: a meanness of spirit, aloofness, and absence of
loyalties. The relevance of the novel is timeless: of the conflict between
spirituality and mindful awareness caught in the whirlpool of business and
commercial life. It’s a theme that seems to have "inspired" Hollywood just
as much as India’s Bollywood movies, for ages, not to speak of old and new
TV soap operas and/or our never-ending, clichéd serials.
The Great Gatsby is more of a long short story. It tells the saga of
Jay Gatsby, who finds Long Island a fascinating but dangerous playground.
Gatsby’s tale, in reality, is told by Nick Carraway, beyond the realms of
vague and complex generalizations: of Gatsby who knows how to get things
done, thanks to his link with the underworld. Gatsby has no friends, only
business associates. And, he is uncompromising in his love for Daisy too,
who is married to Tom Buchanan but was engaged to Gatsby earlier. The
inevitable that follows is incidental. Violence takes its toll, all right,
but what is remarkable is Fitzgerald’s perfect handling of his narrative’s
potent overtones, juxtaposed with its primary element — the decay of souls.
This ain’t all. If patient hopefulness, in the midst of known, existing
conditions, animates The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald’s crafty finesse is
realized with both economy and restraint vis-à-vis his characters’ insensate
selfishness, mordant irony, pathos, and loveliness, without flappers: to
hurt romantics who are desperately trying to seek that other side of
paradise.
Born on September 24, 1896, in St Paul, Minnesota, Fitzgerald was a brave
romantic. After having been outplayed at football in school, he kept trying
— mentally. Soon, he began to look at writing as a pathway to making one’s
journey from the periphery into the centre of things. He wrote one of his
early stories about a boy like himself, who won a game for his team almost
single-handedly. In the course of time, he began to write plays, even
directing them, and taking the lead roles.
At 19, Fitzgerald went to Princeton. He met a beauty, Ginevra King, and fell
madly in love with her. He never quite forgot her. She lives in his novels:
as Judy Jones in Winter Dreams, Isabelle in This Side of Paradise, and Daisy
Buchanan in The Great Gatsby.
Princeton was no bed of roses, and thanks to his poor grades, Fitzgerald
dropped out. He enlisted in the US Army (1917), and reported for training
under Dwight D. Eisenhower. In three months, he wrote the novel, The
Romantic Egotist, with “armed” intent. The novel was rejected. He
rewrote the novel, as he fell again in love, this time with Zelda, who
spurned him. Yet, he would not give up. He soldiered on and sent his new
manuscript, yet again, and after two weeks, This Side… was accepted
for publication.
Destiny was manifest
Fitzgerald wrote: “I paid off my terrible small debts, bought a suit, and
woke up every morning with a world of ineffable top-loftiness and promise…”
It came out all right. But, it came out all right for a different person.
Here he was: a man with the jingle of money in his pocket who married the
girl, Zelda, he loved a year later, and always cherished an abiding
distrust, or animosity towards the leisure class — not with the conviction
of a revolutionary, but with the smoldering hatred of a peasant. It wasn’t
long before Fitzgerald embarked on his famous whirlwind life — spending the
money he didn’t have, hosting all-night parties, and luxuriating in alcohol.
Alcohol was, in a way, his undoing. Yet, his elegance found its own dainty
novelty of expression, breathing new life into his work. Reason enough why
Fitzgerald’s work keeps finding new audiences, thanks to its enduring,
elusive enchantment, and power of romantic imagination that transfigures its
characters and settings. Yet, at the time of his death — December 21, 1940 —
Fitzgerald’s books were all in stock, sans orders. Today, more and more — in
fact, millions —copies of his books have been cumulatively sold than at any
other time.
Fitzgerald once said, “My whole theory of writing I can sum up in one
sentence: ‘An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the
critics of the next, and the schoolmasters of ever afterward’.” He was
prophetic in the sense that he fulfilled his ideal.
So, what makes Fitzgerald so special you may well ask. Himself. He never
wrote stories that were formulaic. They were honest stories. As he himself
wrote: “As soon as I feel I am writing to a cheap specification, my pen
freezes and my talent vanishes over the hill.”
As a novelist, Fitzgerald supplemented his not-so-good income with magazine
work. He became identified with the Saturday Evening Post, where he
published 65 stories, almost 40 per cent of his output. His endings were not
always happy. His fiction was also time-haunted, a structure which was
ironically appropriate to his psyche no less. You could see Fitzgerald
living in his stories, notwithstanding the fact that two of his
masterpieces, May Day and The Diamond as Big as the Ritz, are
too realistic, even temporal, in their overall chemistry. The best part,
however, is: Fitzgerald was his own material. He never tried to be
experimental, or avant-garde. This was his unbeatable genius, an infinite
capacity to convey with amazing finesse.
Fitzgerald’s themes — success and failure, idealism and disillusionment,
time and mutability — also overlap in his stories. They reveal his delicate
flair for history. No small wonder why, as a brilliant social historian,
Fitzgerald evokes the rhythms of the Jazz Age and the Depression, with a
sense of time, and of being just there… everywhere. He wrote about the Jazz
Age as “an age of miracles... art… excess… satire.”
Action is character, said Fitzgerald. Yet, he believed he was a failure. He
was wrong. Literature is what lasts.
His lively repertoire of work compels complete recognition for his sublime
genius — a writer who was in a genre of his own for yesterday, today, and
tomorrow
June 30, 2007
Top | Literary
Shelf
|
|
