Tags
art, book review, culture, Feminist, Fitzgerald, hermit, reading, Therese Anne Fowler, Writing, Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, Zelda
Dear Z,
You appeared in my dream last night wearing your favorite flapper dress, white with a scooping neck line decorated in tiny, golden beads that spread apart like a pair of wings on fire and pinned by a green gem. The dress was spectacular; you were selfishly radiant and candid but still painfully you. Just you. I imagined there are a handful of people, if not less, that idealize the glamour and light that follows you–while I would find that menacing and sometimes even lonely.
I think we had the best, most unpleasant conversation too. Under that concave ceiling fitting every yellow balloon in Manhattan, three, colossal chandeliers shook above our heads, which reminded me where I was. It was a party hosted by one of your celebrity friends, of course. You have so many of them. I raised my voice at you over the banging music. I could tell that you knew I was ready to leave.
You threw your glass at the wall and the piano player made such a loud crack when turning his head, I honestly thought it was a part of the song. Everyone’s eyes were on you, and I had never been in a situation like that. It was like being caught in a net full of dead fish eyes.
But you didn’t shy away, not immediately. You fervently smiled and grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the dance floor and ridiculed each of my clumsy steps. And we picked up right where we had left off. How do I leave from a party like that?
Sincerely,
E
Zelda Fitzgerald has been a popular topic lately between me and my friend. It started when I picked up Therese Anne Fowler’s novel Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald. The last name Fitzgerald caught my attention, so I naturally picked up the book. (Saw it at Barnes and Noble. Had to read it. Didn’t have the money for it. Took a picture of it with my fancy phone. Found it at the library and went home with it and had myself a cinnamon roll.)
Then I read it. My intuition steered me toward another captivating, quizzical read.
This book takes places from Zelda’s point of view; from when she meets Scott F. Fitzgerald to his ending. At times when Zelda internally speaks, it’s youthfully raw that I sometimes feel like I’m listening to a Lana Del Rey song, or I’m listening to the sultry of summer. That’s Zelda Fitzgerald to me.
There is an indescribable appeal about the Fitzgeralds and this book certainly captures it: the languished parties, the dreadful morning after, the feeling of freefalling into an endless dry well, and the private, bittersweet moments shared between Scott and Zelda. I couldn’t commit myself to scorning Scott despite him keeping Zelda from pursuing her passions and talents. And it’s not because he wrote The Greaty Gatsby since, quite frankly, that only makes me disdain him even more! (By the time I was finished with my Bachelors degree, I had read that bloody book three times and NOT ONCE did one of my professor mention his wife or about her book, the only book she wrote I might add. I just find that odd considering whenever there were class discussions about Ted Hughes, it’s almost impossible not to mention his wife Sylvia Plath. But that’s a topic for another time.)
But Scott has his moments, like Zelda, that are lovable and that snatch anything ill we can say about him. Despite the mountain of financial bankruptcy, the alcoholism, adultery, and mental illnesses, it’s hard to dispute the chemistry they had, which makes them so attractive and wild to us.
I almost forget her story though. I’m not going to argue their flaws. It won’t lead anywhere. After reading Fowler’s book and researching Zelda, I wondered about the book’s ending. I was left with a bad taste in my mouth that sought her ending, not her actual real-life ending, but one that felt reminiscent of how she felt in New York City or Paris, standing on the ledge unprepared for the gush of wind about to blow. Which way would she go? When Scott passes away, then her story ends too. I started to wonder about Zelda and if this story was her story. It’s not like I haven’t heard this kind of story before.
There is something familiar about her. The vivacious, flapper acting on her impulses, heading in any direction, falling in love, having a child, and pursuing her artistic passions only to be repressed, stifled, and have it end bitter sweetly. Do we try to allocate responsibility to the oppressive husband? Do we attempt to understand the limitations of society had on women during the time period? Do we try and reasons that mental illness played a factor? Do I dare ask the lean-in question: can women really have it all or does something have to give?
I’ve heard this story several times. The Awakening. The Unvanquished., and Jane Eyre. What bothers me most is that this seems to be our story, and it’s treated like a cautionary tale for women.
I wastefully think, “if only things had been different.” But I can’t see Zelda differently. She still throws a glass of gin at the wall and does the fox trot when I think of her. It’s the same when I think of Plath; her head is bowed but her eyes possess such intensity that I feel dolefully small and restless. As tragic as some parts of their lives are, their work is inspiring, and I truly think, that’s more than enough.
My hermitages are mostly dedicated to art and writing projects, and though some might argue that I can be a bit excessive when it comes to my passions, which is probably true, I’m not apologetic about it. I live trying to create art, and other things, definitely.
If you do decide to read Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald and my spoilers haven’t thwarted your interest, I highly recommend it! I’m currently braving through the only novel Zelda
Fitzgerald ever wrote, Save Me the Waltz, and I will soon bury my face in a book compiled of Zelda Fitzgerald’s love letters to Scott F. Fitzgerald!
Side Effects That May Occur from Reading Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald:
- Incessant need for a flapper dress
- Ongoing roaring-twenty dreams (see letter above)
- Excessive use of the word “darling”
- Urge to drink absinthe
- Incomprehensible reason to blame Hemingway for everything
- Compulsive desire to travel to Paris, and never leave
- Spontaneity hair cut
P.S. I’ve included one of the art pieces I’ve been working on. It’s still a work in progress. Between work and writing, squeezing in time to paint is truly a challenge. Nonetheless, it’s worth it!