What do you think?
Rate this book
The Crack-Up
Sbírka autobiografických esejů a literárních zápisků je mučivým svědectvím o duševním i fyzickém rozkladu autora. Zápisky jsou fascinujícím nahlédnutím do autorské dílny velkého spisovatele.
222 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1936
260 people are currently reading
9226 people want to read
About the author
F. Scott Fitzgerald
2,338 books25.6k followersFrancis Scott Key Fitzgerald, widely known simply as Scott Fitzgerald, was an American novelist, essayist, and short story writer. He is best known for his novels depicting the flamboyance and excess of the Jazz Age, a term he popularized in his short story collection Tales of the Jazz Age. During his lifetime, he published four novels, four story collections, and 164 short stories. Although he achieved temporary popular success and fortune in the 1920s, Fitzgerald received critical acclaim only after his death and is now widely regarded as one of the greatest American writers of the 20th century.
Born into a middle-class family in Saint Paul, Minnesota, Fitzgerald was raised primarily in New York state. He attended Princeton University where he befriended future literary critic Edmund Wilson. Owing to a failed romantic relationship with Chicago socialite Ginevra King, he dropped out in 1917 to join the United States Army during World War I. While stationed in Alabama, he met Zelda Sayre, a Southern debutante who belonged to Montgomery's exclusive country-club set. Although she initially rejected Fitzgerald's marriage proposal due to his lack of financial prospects, Zelda agreed to marry him after he published the commercially successful This Side of Paradise (1920). The novel became a cultural sensation and cemented his reputation as one of the eminent writers of the decade.
His second novel, The Beautiful and Damned (1922), propelled him further into the cultural elite. To maintain his affluent lifestyle, he wrote numerous stories for popular magazines such as The Saturday Evening Post, Collier's Weekly, and Esquire. During this period, Fitzgerald frequented Europe, where he befriended modernist writers and artists of the "Lost Generation" expatriate community, including Ernest Hemingway. His third novel, The Great Gatsby (1925), received generally favorable reviews but was a commercial failure, selling fewer than 23,000 copies in its first year. Despite its lackluster debut, The Great Gatsby is now hailed by some literary critics as the "Great American Novel". Following the deterioration of his wife's mental health and her placement in a mental institute for schizophrenia, Fitzgerald completed his final novel, Tender Is the Night (1934).
Struggling financially because of the declining popularity of his works during the Great Depression, Fitzgerald moved to Hollywood, where he embarked upon an unsuccessful career as a screenwriter. While living in Hollywood, he cohabited with columnist Sheilah Graham, his final companion before his death. After a long struggle with alcoholism, he attained sobriety only to die of a heart attack in 1940, at 44. His friend Edmund Wilson edited and published an unfinished fifth novel, The Last Tycoon (1941), after Fitzgerald's death. In 1993, a new edition was published as The Love of the Last Tycoon, edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli.
Born into a middle-class family in Saint Paul, Minnesota, Fitzgerald was raised primarily in New York state. He attended Princeton University where he befriended future literary critic Edmund Wilson. Owing to a failed romantic relationship with Chicago socialite Ginevra King, he dropped out in 1917 to join the United States Army during World War I. While stationed in Alabama, he met Zelda Sayre, a Southern debutante who belonged to Montgomery's exclusive country-club set. Although she initially rejected Fitzgerald's marriage proposal due to his lack of financial prospects, Zelda agreed to marry him after he published the commercially successful This Side of Paradise (1920). The novel became a cultural sensation and cemented his reputation as one of the eminent writers of the decade.
His second novel, The Beautiful and Damned (1922), propelled him further into the cultural elite. To maintain his affluent lifestyle, he wrote numerous stories for popular magazines such as The Saturday Evening Post, Collier's Weekly, and Esquire. During this period, Fitzgerald frequented Europe, where he befriended modernist writers and artists of the "Lost Generation" expatriate community, including Ernest Hemingway. His third novel, The Great Gatsby (1925), received generally favorable reviews but was a commercial failure, selling fewer than 23,000 copies in its first year. Despite its lackluster debut, The Great Gatsby is now hailed by some literary critics as the "Great American Novel". Following the deterioration of his wife's mental health and her placement in a mental institute for schizophrenia, Fitzgerald completed his final novel, Tender Is the Night (1934).
Struggling financially because of the declining popularity of his works during the Great Depression, Fitzgerald moved to Hollywood, where he embarked upon an unsuccessful career as a screenwriter. While living in Hollywood, he cohabited with columnist Sheilah Graham, his final companion before his death. After a long struggle with alcoholism, he attained sobriety only to die of a heart attack in 1940, at 44. His friend Edmund Wilson edited and published an unfinished fifth novel, The Last Tycoon (1941), after Fitzgerald's death. In 1993, a new edition was published as The Love of the Last Tycoon, edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 285 reviews
October 3, 2024
The rating isn't really a reflection of Fitzgerald but more of the editing.
This book has 3 main sections (there are others but these are the main three):
1) Fitzgerald's essays
2) Fitzgerald's Notebook
3)Letters from Fitzgerald
In the first section, the highlight is a series of three essays in which Fitzgerald talks about his fall from grace. This is the time before influencers and fake authenticity, and Fitzgerald's peers were upset with his transparency into his dark times. Previously, a YouTuber had mentioned that Fitzgerald spent time in New York and even rode on the roof of a taxicab. However, the video didn't cite its sources. Apparently, after reading The Crack-Up, it was Fitzgerald himself.
The downfall of the book lies in section 2 and 3. After Fitzgerald died, Edmond Wilson, Fitzgerlald's long-time friend collected his personal writings. In his lifetime, Fitzgerald kept a notebook, and it was reproduced in The Crack-Up. Unforntunately, it is heavily edited--It is missing some of Fitzgerald's best jottings. The same thing with his letters. Edmond Wilson only supplied a small sample of letters primarily to himself, John Peale Bishop, and to Fitzgerald's daughter, Scottie.
This is the classic case where when you try to do too much you end up pleasing no one. The Notebooks of F. Scott Fitzgerald edited by Matthew Bruccoli and F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Life in Letters edited by Matthew Bruccoli are much more comprehensive and frankly a better value for the money.
The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Hardcover Text – Free through Mel-Cat (a Michigan collaboration of libraries)
Connect With Me!
Blog Twitter BookTube Facebook Insta My Bookstore at Pango
This book has 3 main sections (there are others but these are the main three):
1) Fitzgerald's essays
2) Fitzgerald's Notebook
3)Letters from Fitzgerald
In the first section, the highlight is a series of three essays in which Fitzgerald talks about his fall from grace. This is the time before influencers and fake authenticity, and Fitzgerald's peers were upset with his transparency into his dark times. Previously, a YouTuber had mentioned that Fitzgerald spent time in New York and even rode on the roof of a taxicab. However, the video didn't cite its sources. Apparently, after reading The Crack-Up, it was Fitzgerald himself.
The downfall of the book lies in section 2 and 3. After Fitzgerald died, Edmond Wilson, Fitzgerlald's long-time friend collected his personal writings. In his lifetime, Fitzgerald kept a notebook, and it was reproduced in The Crack-Up. Unforntunately, it is heavily edited--It is missing some of Fitzgerald's best jottings. The same thing with his letters. Edmond Wilson only supplied a small sample of letters primarily to himself, John Peale Bishop, and to Fitzgerald's daughter, Scottie.
This is the classic case where when you try to do too much you end up pleasing no one. The Notebooks of F. Scott Fitzgerald edited by Matthew Bruccoli and F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Life in Letters edited by Matthew Bruccoli are much more comprehensive and frankly a better value for the money.
The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Hardcover Text – Free through Mel-Cat (a Michigan collaboration of libraries)
Connect With Me!
Blog Twitter BookTube Facebook Insta My Bookstore at Pango
March 2, 2025
UNA STAGIONE ALL’INFERNO
Si tratta di tre articoli apparsi su rivista (Esquire) a distanza di un mese uno dall’altro: febbraio, marzo e aprile del 1936.
Il primo, The Crack-up dà il titolo alla raccolta italiana, Il crollo.
Il mio cuore messo a nudo, avrebbe potuto dire Fitzgerald riferendosi a questi tre articoli.
Non tutti apprezzarono, Hemingway tra e sopra tutti: troppo sincero, si mostra troppo debole, troppo fragile, non abbastanza uomo. Eccetera eccetera.
Fitz si paragona a un piatto crepato, di quelli che non sai se valga o no la pena di conservare.
È come se improvvisamente, a un passo dal compiere quaranta anni, Fitz si sentisse entrato nel secondo, se non addirittura terzo atto della vita. E certo la morte era alle porte: la salute cominciava a dargli problemi (tubercolosi, più avanti il cuore), l’alcol continuava a dargliene, la morte sarebbe arrivata quattro anni dopo.
Nel frattempo aveva una figlia adolescente da mantenere agli studi: e chiaramente, scuole di prestigio sulla costa orientale. E aveva sua moglie Zelda da mantenere in clinica psichiatrica (in pratica per l’intero decennio degli anni Trenta). I debiti si sommavano ai debiti: a un certo punto arrivò ad averne per quarantamila dollari.
E come se conoscesse l’arte giapponese del Kintsugi, Fitz usava l’oro della sua scrittura per riparare la crepa del piatto cui si paragonava.
Questa “trilogia della depressione” – ancor più nel suo capitolo iniziale, sorta di autopsia di anima e corpo a sangue vivo, che mi ha letteralmente devastato – colpisce e sferza per la sua onestà e sincerità e lucidità, per il suo coraggio e assenza d’enfasi.
Francis e Zelda.
Vidi come il romanzo, che quando avevo raggiunto l’età matura era il mezzo espressivo più forte e più duttile per trasmettere emozioni e pensieri da un essere umano all’altro, si andasse assoggettando a un’arte collettiva e meccanica che, nelle mani dei mercanti hollywoodiani o degli idealisti russi, era capace di riflettere soltanto il pensiero più banale, l’emozione più scontata. Un’arte in cui le parole erano subordinate alle immagini, la personalità inevitabilmente dimidiata per stare al passo col lavoro di squadra. Fin dal 1930 ebbi sentore che il cinema avrebbe reso perfino il romanziere di maggior successo arcaico quanto il cinema muto.
La famiglia al completo.
Si tratta di tre articoli apparsi su rivista (Esquire) a distanza di un mese uno dall’altro: febbraio, marzo e aprile del 1936.
Il primo, The Crack-up dà il titolo alla raccolta italiana, Il crollo.
Il mio cuore messo a nudo, avrebbe potuto dire Fitzgerald riferendosi a questi tre articoli.
Non tutti apprezzarono, Hemingway tra e sopra tutti: troppo sincero, si mostra troppo debole, troppo fragile, non abbastanza uomo. Eccetera eccetera.
Fitz si paragona a un piatto crepato, di quelli che non sai se valga o no la pena di conservare.
È come se improvvisamente, a un passo dal compiere quaranta anni, Fitz si sentisse entrato nel secondo, se non addirittura terzo atto della vita. E certo la morte era alle porte: la salute cominciava a dargli problemi (tubercolosi, più avanti il cuore), l’alcol continuava a dargliene, la morte sarebbe arrivata quattro anni dopo.
Nel frattempo aveva una figlia adolescente da mantenere agli studi: e chiaramente, scuole di prestigio sulla costa orientale. E aveva sua moglie Zelda da mantenere in clinica psichiatrica (in pratica per l’intero decennio degli anni Trenta). I debiti si sommavano ai debiti: a un certo punto arrivò ad averne per quarantamila dollari.
E come se conoscesse l’arte giapponese del Kintsugi, Fitz usava l’oro della sua scrittura per riparare la crepa del piatto cui si paragonava.
Questa “trilogia della depressione” – ancor più nel suo capitolo iniziale, sorta di autopsia di anima e corpo a sangue vivo, che mi ha letteralmente devastato – colpisce e sferza per la sua onestà e sincerità e lucidità, per il suo coraggio e assenza d’enfasi.
Francis e Zelda.
Vidi come il romanzo, che quando avevo raggiunto l’età matura era il mezzo espressivo più forte e più duttile per trasmettere emozioni e pensieri da un essere umano all’altro, si andasse assoggettando a un’arte collettiva e meccanica che, nelle mani dei mercanti hollywoodiani o degli idealisti russi, era capace di riflettere soltanto il pensiero più banale, l’emozione più scontata. Un’arte in cui le parole erano subordinate alle immagini, la personalità inevitabilmente dimidiata per stare al passo col lavoro di squadra. Fin dal 1930 ebbi sentore che il cinema avrebbe reso perfino il romanziere di maggior successo arcaico quanto il cinema muto.
La famiglia al completo.
October 15, 2021
Among F. Scott Fitzgerald’s final publications was a series of short articles done for Esquire Magazine in 1936. They are titled The Crack-Up and they deal primarily with his own sudden realization, at the age of 39 and only four years from his own death, that his life had, in his own eyes, been a failure.
There is a sense of sadness that runs through his always elegant prose that is heart-rending. Early in the essays he states
The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.
I could not help thinking that his brilliant writing, which he must surely have recognized as such, and his feelings of abject failure, were those “two opposed ideas” and that his great fear was that he would lose his “ability to function.”
As a general rule, I am more interested in what an author writes and the ideas and meanings I can come away with from his body of work than the author’s actual life. Fitzgerald is almost an exception to that rule. So much of what makes him a fascination is his own complicated and flawed life, his dealings with the madness of Zelda, his struggle to belong to a world he never feels quite comfortable in. He is Nick Carroway in so many ways, observing the glitz and glitter and often wondering just what he is doing in this place and time.
He speaks briefly about his own pursuit of Zelda as a young man who cannot support her family lifestyle and his change of fortune when he initially made good on his writing career.
The man with the jingle of money in his pocket who married the girl a year later would always cherish an abiding distrust, an animosity, toward the leisure class -- not the conviction of a revolutionist but the smoldering hatred of a peasant.
Even Scott realized in the end that his attempts to run with the “in-crowd” had tinted his life a different color than he had expected or wished. The essays are part and parcel of this realization, but, like all things Fitzgerald, there is a bit of duplicity there as well, a tiny indicator that the writer is still talking to you, not the man. Perhaps, by this juncture, the man is irretrievably lost.
October 5, 2007
This shows just how far Fitzgerald descended...his is a story of wasted talent...BUT (and this is what I like to focus on) it is also a story of how he began a slow, painstaking ascent...He realized how far he had fallen, and he decided to make the long, hard climb back up...Too bad his heart simply gave out on him...Had he lived longer, it would have been interesting to see what he produced...
February 25, 2012
Salvare o essere salvato, mai niente di meno.
La vita di uno dei più grandi scrittori americani ha avuto degli alti e bassi, un po' come le vite di tutti. Un forte momento di depressione ha spinto Fitzgerald a perdere se stesso dopo aver perso tutto il resto. Sto parlando del crollo morale di una persona, della perdita di ogni valore, di ogni atteggiamento. La conseguenza del troppo pensare.
"Va bene che la vita è tutta un processo di disgregamento, ma i colpi di portata micidiale - i colpacci improvvisi che arrivano, o sembrano arrivare, dall'esterno e che restano impressi, da addurre poi a discolpa, o che confesserai agli amici nei momenti di debolezza - quelli lasciano sempre qualche strascico. C'è un altro genere di colpi che arriva dall'interno, che avverti solo quando è troppo tardi per correre ai ripari, quando prendi coscienza senza appello che per certi aspetti non sarai più quello di un tempo. Il primo tipo di incrinatura sembra prodursi in fretta; il secondo si produce quasi a tua insaputa ma, d'un tratto, ne hai piena coscienza."
È interessante vedere come Fitzgerald parli dei suoi quarant'anni come l'età del crollo, dove cade pure "la certezza di avere un cuore". Il periodo in cui Zelda iniziava a dare segni di squilibrio mentale. Lo scrittore non riesce più ad avere contatti umani o quasi, si ritrova isolato dalla società e anche dal suo comportamento che ora rinnega. Lentamente si disgrega, perde fiducia in tutto, ed è convinto che questo sia dovuto alla sua condizione di adulto.
"Io avevo solo bisogno di pace assoluta per arrivare a capire come mai avessi maturato un atteggiamento triste nei confronti della tristezza, un atteggiamento malinconico nei confronti della malinconia e un atteggiamento tragico nei confronti della tragedia: come mai avessi finito per identificarmi con l'oggetto del mio orrore e della mia compassione."
La vita di uno dei più grandi scrittori americani ha avuto degli alti e bassi, un po' come le vite di tutti. Un forte momento di depressione ha spinto Fitzgerald a perdere se stesso dopo aver perso tutto il resto. Sto parlando del crollo morale di una persona, della perdita di ogni valore, di ogni atteggiamento. La conseguenza del troppo pensare.
"Va bene che la vita è tutta un processo di disgregamento, ma i colpi di portata micidiale - i colpacci improvvisi che arrivano, o sembrano arrivare, dall'esterno e che restano impressi, da addurre poi a discolpa, o che confesserai agli amici nei momenti di debolezza - quelli lasciano sempre qualche strascico. C'è un altro genere di colpi che arriva dall'interno, che avverti solo quando è troppo tardi per correre ai ripari, quando prendi coscienza senza appello che per certi aspetti non sarai più quello di un tempo. Il primo tipo di incrinatura sembra prodursi in fretta; il secondo si produce quasi a tua insaputa ma, d'un tratto, ne hai piena coscienza."
È interessante vedere come Fitzgerald parli dei suoi quarant'anni come l'età del crollo, dove cade pure "la certezza di avere un cuore". Il periodo in cui Zelda iniziava a dare segni di squilibrio mentale. Lo scrittore non riesce più ad avere contatti umani o quasi, si ritrova isolato dalla società e anche dal suo comportamento che ora rinnega. Lentamente si disgrega, perde fiducia in tutto, ed è convinto che questo sia dovuto alla sua condizione di adulto.
"Io avevo solo bisogno di pace assoluta per arrivare a capire come mai avessi maturato un atteggiamento triste nei confronti della tristezza, un atteggiamento malinconico nei confronti della malinconia e un atteggiamento tragico nei confronti della tragedia: come mai avessi finito per identificarmi con l'oggetto del mio orrore e della mia compassione."
February 4, 2023
“Così continuiamo a remare, barche contro corrente, risospinti senza posa nel passato”(Jay Gatsby/Nick Carraway)
Il Grande Gatsby, Baz Luhrmann, il Party
L’età del jazz è terminata. Niente più feste sfarzose, balli sfrenati, bella vita, belle donne/uomini, sesso liberato, alcol e droghe.
I ragazzi che portano il sole, Scott e Zelda, non risplendono più. Niente più Parigi, niente più riviera francese, niente più sodalizio con la generazione perduta.
Il Grande Gatsby, Baz Luhrmann, Jay e Daisy
E’ il crollo. Socio-economico, con la grande crisi del ‘29. E personale. Il magnifico scrittore diventa un piatto vecchio e crepato. Non in grado di riconoscere più il suo io, dissociato da sé stesso. Non in grado di accettare un tempo diverso, un secondo tempo. Perso nella sterile ricerca di quel primo tempo in cui passato felice e futuro promettente si riunivano in un fantastico presente.
FSF si spoglia davanti a noi e si auto-psico-analizza, in modo freddo e preciso. Per un po’ funzionerà. La fine è nota, dopo poco, giovanissimo, il suo fisico, già molto provato, cede.
Postazione di Ottavio Fatica di altissima qualità. Per apprezzare al meglio è opportuno conoscere un po’ la bio di FSF e leggere il Grande Gatsby e Tenera è la notte.
Il Grande Gatsby, Baz Luhrmann, il Party
L’età del jazz è terminata. Niente più feste sfarzose, balli sfrenati, bella vita, belle donne/uomini, sesso liberato, alcol e droghe.
I ragazzi che portano il sole, Scott e Zelda, non risplendono più. Niente più Parigi, niente più riviera francese, niente più sodalizio con la generazione perduta.
Il Grande Gatsby, Baz Luhrmann, Jay e Daisy
E’ il crollo. Socio-economico, con la grande crisi del ‘29. E personale. Il magnifico scrittore diventa un piatto vecchio e crepato. Non in grado di riconoscere più il suo io, dissociato da sé stesso. Non in grado di accettare un tempo diverso, un secondo tempo. Perso nella sterile ricerca di quel primo tempo in cui passato felice e futuro promettente si riunivano in un fantastico presente.
FSF si spoglia davanti a noi e si auto-psico-analizza, in modo freddo e preciso. Per un po’ funzionerà. La fine è nota, dopo poco, giovanissimo, il suo fisico, già molto provato, cede.
Postazione di Ottavio Fatica di altissima qualità. Per apprezzare al meglio è opportuno conoscere un po’ la bio di FSF e leggere il Grande Gatsby e Tenera è la notte.
April 13, 2025
...the waste and the horror -- what I could have become, what I could have done and it was lost, wasted, gone, scattered irretrievably. I could have done this, I could have refrained from this, I could have been bold when I was timid, cautious when I was hasty.
I shouldn't have hurt her like this.
I shouldn't have said that to him either.
Nor should I have broken my bones trying to defeat what was invincible.
Now the horror is coming like a storm -- what if this night foreshadows the night before death? -- what if the afterlife is nothing but an eternal oscillation on the edge of a chasm, with all the vile and perverse things in each pushing us forward, while all the vile and perverse things in the world wait just beyond? No options, no open paths, no hope -- just the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic. Or, perhaps, to stand forever on the threshold of life, unable to cross it and return to it. Now, as the clock strikes four, I am a ghost...
**
...my problem became that of discovering why and in what way I had changed, where the crack was through which, without my knowing it, my enthusiasm and vitality were constantly and prematurely leaking out.
***
This is what I believe now: that the natural state of a conscious adult is one of specialized unhappiness. And I also believe that an adult's desire to prove oneself more than one is, that permanent struggle (as those who make their living saying such things say), does nothing but amplify his/her unhappiness to the end -- until it puts an end to youth and hope.
****
…senzația ca, în esență, viața este o păcăleală, ca termenii impuși te sortesc înfrângerii și că izbăvirea nu vine din lucruri precum “fericirea și plăcerea”, ci din satisfacțiile mai profunde izvorâte din lupta cu ea. Odată ce ai descoperit asta în teorie, din viețile si concluziile oamenilor mari, poți să ai parte de al naibii de mult mai multă bucurie din lucrurile luminoase care îți ies în cale, oricare or fi ele…
I shouldn't have hurt her like this.
I shouldn't have said that to him either.
Nor should I have broken my bones trying to defeat what was invincible.
Now the horror is coming like a storm -- what if this night foreshadows the night before death? -- what if the afterlife is nothing but an eternal oscillation on the edge of a chasm, with all the vile and perverse things in each pushing us forward, while all the vile and perverse things in the world wait just beyond? No options, no open paths, no hope -- just the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic. Or, perhaps, to stand forever on the threshold of life, unable to cross it and return to it. Now, as the clock strikes four, I am a ghost...
**
...my problem became that of discovering why and in what way I had changed, where the crack was through which, without my knowing it, my enthusiasm and vitality were constantly and prematurely leaking out.
***
This is what I believe now: that the natural state of a conscious adult is one of specialized unhappiness. And I also believe that an adult's desire to prove oneself more than one is, that permanent struggle (as those who make their living saying such things say), does nothing but amplify his/her unhappiness to the end -- until it puts an end to youth and hope.
****
…senzația ca, în esență, viața este o păcăleală, ca termenii impuși te sortesc înfrângerii și că izbăvirea nu vine din lucruri precum “fericirea și plăcerea”, ci din satisfacțiile mai profunde izvorâte din lupta cu ea. Odată ce ai descoperit asta în teorie, din viețile si concluziile oamenilor mari, poți să ai parte de al naibii de mult mai multă bucurie din lucrurile luminoase care îți ies în cale, oricare or fi ele…
June 2, 2021
Tre articoli che sono racconti schietti e spietati dal centro della crisi. Profonda e per certi versi irrimediabile.
Fitzgerald è, ancora una volta, in grado di farne grande scrittura. Di riflessione, di autoanalisi, di specchio senza vittimismo e senza compiacimento.
Parole che escono limpide e cristalline da un cuore di tenebra, perché “ in una vera notte oscura dell’anima sono sempre le tre del mattino, un giorno dopo l’altro.“
Fitzgerald è, ancora una volta, in grado di farne grande scrittura. Di riflessione, di autoanalisi, di specchio senza vittimismo e senza compiacimento.
Parole che escono limpide e cristalline da un cuore di tenebra, perché “ in una vera notte oscura dell’anima sono sempre le tre del mattino, un giorno dopo l’altro.“
August 12, 2016
There's some beautiful writing here, especially in the first portion of the book, which is comprised of several essays by FSF. (Also, there's a wonderful poem by Edmund Wilson (I didn't know he wrote poetry) at the front of the book.) In the essays, FSF, while admitting that more distance was needed, shows a remarkable grasp of the Jazz age and what it meant -- and didn't mean. Oddly, I found this look back somewhat reminiscent of Keith Richards' recent book. FSF & Zelda were the Keith and Anita of their day, literary rock stars boozing it up and travelling hard. Occasionally some good writing broke through. I'm not a fan of FSF, partly due to the thinly cloaked subject matter of much his writing -- Himself and Z. To some extent, Hemingway was doing the same thing, but I think he pulled it off better, since the Self Pity is pretty much Zero. FSG wallows in it (which has me giving more weight to Hemingway's savage portrayal of FSF in A Moveable Feast). Oh, there's "honesty" in the sense that he's got himself pegged. "The Crack Up," the center piece essay, I found to be a sour and bitter goodbye from someone who hollowed himself out, and had consigned himself, prematurely, to a I-Don't-Give-Shit-Anymore existence. Truth be told, I think I enjoyed some of the other essays more, especially the ones coauthored with Zelda. The rest of the book is made up of a long section called the Notebooks (over a hundred pages). I only dipped in and out of that section since such literary scraps usually don't hold much interest to me. Same thing with the end section, which has a number of letters. I only read the ones that involved people I have interest in. I found it interesting that TS Eliot, in one letter, admitted to FSF that he had read The Great Gatsby 3 or 4 times. I think it's a good novel, but not that good. But I will concede, at the time it was written, it must have seemed the best novel of its time.
September 1, 2010
I couldn't agree more with the reviewer who observed she had not expected to care so much for the author. I started reading this volume as a long time but only luke-warm reader of Fitzgerald. This painful memoir of his depression and recovery was initially intellectually engaging but to my amazement became intimate and absorbing in ways Fitgerald's novels are not. In this book of short stories, letters, and misc. prose Fitzgerald turned his considerable talents towards examining, as Philip Lopate suggests, the character of the "I," and the reader is much the better for his efforts.
March 10, 2021
O carte de un verde crud, verde visceral, potrivită pentru o primăvara a deznadejdii și a supliciului vehement...Fitzgerald taie în carne vie, montează o scenetă a renegării absolute a eului personal, ultima cartea a clasicului înainte de moarte, nu ai cum să nu o refractezi adânc...
June 2, 2016
In these highly personal and moving essays Fitzgerald’s theme is disillusionment. As someone who enjoyed immense fame and success at an early age but then lived to see a day when all his books were out of print he has a very topsy turvy personal experience of the losing of illusions to draw on. Fitzgerald isn’t really known for his wisdom or his intellectual rigour but these essays reveal a mind which is more than capable of seeing and organising the bigger picture. Much of what he writes in these essays has been quoted, the most famous of which is probably this - Before I go on with this short history, let me make a general observation -- the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. This philosophy fitted on to my early adult life, when I saw the improbable, the implausible, often the "impossible," come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort, or to what proportion could be mustered of both. It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man -- you were not ever going to be as famous as a movie star but what note you had was probably longer-lived; you were never going to have the power of a man of strong political or religious convictions but you were certainly more independent. Of course within the practice of your trade you were forever unsatisfied -- but I, for one, would not have chosen any other.”
A fabulous quick read and highly recommended.
A fabulous quick read and highly recommended.
January 15, 2014
Sono tre articoli sulla depressione. Come tre racconti in sequenza. Brevi. Veri. Scritti daddìo (anche con apostrofo).
Un lettore pragmatico e superficiale potrebbe sintetizzare una trama. Del tipo: sentirsi come "un piatto crepato" e dopo aver scartato la soluzione di scappare nei mari del sud o in un altro Altrove ("La famosa «fuga», ovvero «piantare tutto in asso», è una gita in una trappola"), pensare di venirne fuori appendendo alla porta il cartello "cave canem".
Un lettore pignolo al contrario potrebbe esercitarsi a lungo. Per esempio sulla frase con cui l'autore ci dice che sta vivendo "una deflazione di tutti i miei valori". Per tentare di capire (senza riuscirci) se si stia parlando di economia, di filosofia o di psicologia. E per concludere che le grandi depressioni in qualsiasi campo se ne parli e in qualsiasi secolo le si collochino si somigliano in un modo che fa paura.
(Ci siamo lamentati per mezza vita dell'inflazione, dell'eccesso di denaro circolante e di ideali, più o meno buoni. Passeremo l'altra mezza a lamentarci della deflazione, cioè della sparizione - peraltro con una contemporaneità sospetta - di denaro e idee?).
Alla fine della giostra, "Un critico maldisposto potrebbe liquidare il tutto come il piagnisteo di un bambino viziato". Così si dice nella postfazione. Epperò ci si risponde; e come meglio non si potrebbe: "questo vale per quasi tutta la poesia".
Un lettore pragmatico e superficiale potrebbe sintetizzare una trama. Del tipo: sentirsi come "un piatto crepato" e dopo aver scartato la soluzione di scappare nei mari del sud o in un altro Altrove ("La famosa «fuga», ovvero «piantare tutto in asso», è una gita in una trappola"), pensare di venirne fuori appendendo alla porta il cartello "cave canem".
Un lettore pignolo al contrario potrebbe esercitarsi a lungo. Per esempio sulla frase con cui l'autore ci dice che sta vivendo "una deflazione di tutti i miei valori". Per tentare di capire (senza riuscirci) se si stia parlando di economia, di filosofia o di psicologia. E per concludere che le grandi depressioni in qualsiasi campo se ne parli e in qualsiasi secolo le si collochino si somigliano in un modo che fa paura.
(Ci siamo lamentati per mezza vita dell'inflazione, dell'eccesso di denaro circolante e di ideali, più o meno buoni. Passeremo l'altra mezza a lamentarci della deflazione, cioè della sparizione - peraltro con una contemporaneità sospetta - di denaro e idee?).
Alla fine della giostra, "Un critico maldisposto potrebbe liquidare il tutto come il piagnisteo di un bambino viziato". Così si dice nella postfazione. Epperò ci si risponde; e come meglio non si potrebbe: "questo vale per quasi tutta la poesia".
Read
May 24, 2023Sono una settantina di pagine (compresa la postfazione di Ottavio Fatica) veramente belle, dense d'una lucidità sofferente, un uomo che guarda la crepa e attende il crollo, che volge gli occhi a quello che sarebbe potuto essere e che non sarà mai, un disumano e denutrito essere che agogna la solitudine.
"Io avevo solo bisogno di pace assoluta per arrivare a capire come mai avessi finito per identificarmi con l'oggetto del mio orrore o della mia compassione."
"Io avevo solo bisogno di pace assoluta per arrivare a capire come mai avessi finito per identificarmi con l'oggetto del mio orrore o della mia compassione."
February 10, 2025
ความเรียงของฟิตเจอรัลด์เล่มนี้ (หากเรายืนยันว่ามันเป็นแค่ความเรียง) ทำให้ผมรู้ว่า ความร้าวรานและความเจ็บปวดก็มีช่วงเวลาที่เหมาะสมในการแสดงออกมาเหมือนกัน หากเผยความแตกสลายของตนเองผิดที่ผิดเวลา ผลที่ได้รับคือการถูกตราหน้าว่าอ่อนแอไร้ค่า ควรเก็บความเจ็บปวดของตัวเองไปให้ไกลหน้าไกลตาคนอื่นซะ อย่าแสดงสิ่งนี้ออกมาให้เห็นอีก
ความน่าตลกก็คือ หากฟิตเจอรัลเกิดในยุคนี้ และเขียนความเรียงชิ้นนี้ออกมาสู้สาธารณะ แน่ใจชิบหายว่างานของเขาจะดัง คนแชร์หรือพูดถึงอย่างล้นหลาม เพราะการแสดงออกถึงรอยร้าวและความเจ็บปวดของตนเองในยุคสมัยนี้คือความกล้าที่ผู้คนยอมรับ ย่อมจะมีแต่คนโอบกอด ประคองความเศร้าของคนผู้นั้นไม่ให้ร่วงหล่นมากไปกว่านี้
แต่ก็นั่นแหละ เมื่อฟิตเจอรัลไม่ได้เกิดในยุคนี้ แต่เขาดันเกิดเร็วกว่าควรจะเป็นเกือบ 100 ปี ความร้าวรานจากการร่วงหล่นจากจุดสูงสุดมานอนเกยคลุกดินคลุกฝุ่นจนแทบไม่เหลืออะไร แถมดันเอาความร้าวรานนี้มาเขียนเปิดเปลือยความอ่อนแอของตนเองไปอีก ผลที่ได่รับกลับมาเลยเป็นการเปิดอกให้คนแทงซ้ำสอง ซึ่งคนที่แทงเขาให้มิดอีกครั้งก็ดันเป็นเพื่อนสนิทของเขาเองไปอีก
งานชิ้นนี้ในมุมหนึ่งเลยเป็นงานที่จริงที่สุดชิ้นหนึ่ง ในแง่ของการเผยให้เห็นถึงความ "กูไม่ไหวแล้ว" ของฟิตเจอรัล โดยหวังว่าจะเป็นเชือกเส้นสุดท้ายที่จะมีใครยอมจับแล้วช่วยดึงตัวเขาขึ้นไปสู่จุดสูงสุดอีกครั้ง แต่ถึงกระนั้นในความจริงของอารมณ์ความรู้สึกแล้ว งานชิ้นนี้ก็มีความเป็นส่วนตัวเอามากๆ จนเหมือนฟิตเจอรัลไม่ได้เขียนขึ้นให้กับผู้อ่านที่ไหนเลย นอกจากตัวของเขาเองในอดีต เป็นสารที่ส่งถึงช่วงเวลาอันรุ่งโรจน์ที่ดูจะไม่ได้มาเยือนเขาอีกต่อไปแล้ว เหมือนเป็นคำเตือนถึงตัวเองเขาเองหากย้อนเวลากลับไปได้ว่านี่แหละคือปลายทางนักเขียนอย่าง "มึง" ที่เลือกที่จะใช้ชีวิตในแบบนี้ ก็สมควรยอมรับผลที่ตามมา จะมาพร่ำเพ้อบ่นกระปอดกระแปดเว้าวอนอะไรอีก
แด่ความร้าวราน จึงเป็นงาน "ของเขาเพื่อตัวรับใช้ตัวเขา" ไม่ใช่งานเพื่อใครหรือสิ่งอื่นใดที่เข้าใจงานชิ้นนี้ได้อย่างสุดหัวใจแบบที่ฟิตเจอรัล��ีดทุกอย่างในชีวิต กลายมาเป็นผลงานชิ้นนี้
ความน่าตลกก็คือ หากฟิตเจอรัลเกิดในยุคนี้ และเขียนความเรียงชิ้นนี้ออกมาสู้สาธารณะ แน่ใจชิบหายว่างานของเขาจะดัง คนแชร์หรือพูดถึงอย่างล้นหลาม เพราะการแสดงออกถึงรอยร้าวและความเจ็บปวดของตนเองในยุคสมัยนี้คือความกล้าที่ผู้คนยอมรับ ย่อมจะมีแต่คนโอบกอด ประคองความเศร้าของคนผู้นั้นไม่ให้ร่วงหล่นมากไปกว่านี้
แต่ก็นั่นแหละ เมื่อฟิตเจอรัลไม่ได้เกิดในยุคนี้ แต่เขาดันเกิดเร็วกว่าควรจะเป็นเกือบ 100 ปี ความร้าวรานจากการร่วงหล่นจากจุดสูงสุดมานอนเกยคลุกดินคลุกฝุ่นจนแทบไม่เหลืออะไร แถมดันเอาความร้าวรานนี้มาเขียนเปิดเปลือยความอ่อนแอของตนเองไปอีก ผลที่ได่รับกลับมาเลยเป็นการเปิดอกให้คนแทงซ้ำสอง ซึ่งคนที่แทงเขาให้มิดอีกครั้งก็ดันเป็นเพื่อนสนิทของเขาเองไปอีก
งานชิ้นนี้ในมุมหนึ่งเลยเป็นงานที่จริงที่สุดชิ้นหนึ่ง ในแง่ของการเผยให้เห็นถึงความ "กูไม่ไหวแล้ว" ของฟิตเจอรัล โดยหวังว่าจะเป็นเชือกเส้นสุดท้ายที่จะมีใครยอมจับแล้วช่วยดึงตัวเขาขึ้นไปสู่จุดสูงสุดอีกครั้ง แต่ถึงกระนั้นในความจริงของอารมณ์ความรู้สึกแล้ว งานชิ้นนี้ก็มีความเป็นส่วนตัวเอามากๆ จนเหมือนฟิตเจอรัลไม่ได้เขียนขึ้นให้กับผู้อ่านที่ไหนเลย นอกจากตัวของเขาเองในอดีต เป็นสารที่ส่งถึงช่วงเวลาอันรุ่งโรจน์ที่ดูจะไม่ได้มาเยือนเขาอีกต่อไปแล้ว เหมือนเป็นคำเตือนถึงตัวเองเขาเองหากย้อนเวลากลับไปได้ว่านี่แหละคือปลายทางนักเขียนอย่าง "มึง" ที่เลือกที่จะใช้ชีวิตในแบบนี้ ก็สมควรยอมรับผลที่ตามมา จะมาพร่ำเพ้อบ่นกระปอดกระแปดเว้าวอนอะไรอีก
แด่ความร้าวราน จึงเป็นงาน "ของเขาเพื่อตัวรับใช้ตัวเขา" ไม่ใช่งานเพื่อใครหรือสิ่งอื่นใดที่เข้าใจงานชิ้นนี้ได้อย่างสุดหัวใจแบบที่ฟิตเจอรัล��ีดทุกอย่างในชีวิต กลายมาเป็นผลงานชิ้นนี้
May 29, 2021
Nel 1936 vennero pubblicati sulla rivista Esquire i tre articoli che compongono questo libriccino. Fitzgerald li aveva scritti durante un periodo di intensa depressione, risultato del crac di Wall Street e della malattia della moglie Zelda, a cui nel 1930 venne diagnosticata la schizofrenia e da quell'anno passerà da una clinica all'altra.
L'età del jazz è finita, Fitzgerald vive una crisi familiare e personale. Gli articoli pubblicati da Esquire sono, come disse Fernanda Pivano, un documento sincero e un grido disperato. Fitzgerald non racconta più le brillanti serate della coppia che era al massimo dello splendore, ma racconta la sua depressione, il suo aver fallito, il suo crollo e accettato, la sua intenzione di risalire la china e ritornare alla normalità. Purtroppo, il mondo non era pronto a vedere il suo eroe scendere dalle vette e il suo mondo, il mondo letterario, tra cui Hemingway che tanto Fitzgerald aveva aiutato all'inizio della sua carriera e che riteneva un amico, si indignò e lo accusò di aver fatto una figura patetica mostrando al mondo il suo crollo.
Fitzgerald morirà poi quattro anni dopo, in stato di povertà, dopo un momento, con il lavoro a Hollywood come sceneggiatore, in cui sembrava essersi ripreso anche economicamente ed era più sereno.
I tre articoli sono incredibilmente sinceri, scritti con uno stile più maturo, con grande profondità d'animo e mente. Chiunque abbia affrontato un momento no può rivedersi in queste parole e ricevere aiuto dalla sua sincerità.
Se Fitzgerald viene visto come il simbolo dell'età del jazz, un uomo dedito solo alle feste, un debole schiavo dell'alcool, queste pagine dimostrano che in realtà sapeva essere più onesto e migliore di tutti i "tosti" scrittori del periodo messi insieme.
L'età del jazz è finita, Fitzgerald vive una crisi familiare e personale. Gli articoli pubblicati da Esquire sono, come disse Fernanda Pivano, un documento sincero e un grido disperato. Fitzgerald non racconta più le brillanti serate della coppia che era al massimo dello splendore, ma racconta la sua depressione, il suo aver fallito, il suo crollo e accettato, la sua intenzione di risalire la china e ritornare alla normalità. Purtroppo, il mondo non era pronto a vedere il suo eroe scendere dalle vette e il suo mondo, il mondo letterario, tra cui Hemingway che tanto Fitzgerald aveva aiutato all'inizio della sua carriera e che riteneva un amico, si indignò e lo accusò di aver fatto una figura patetica mostrando al mondo il suo crollo.
Fitzgerald morirà poi quattro anni dopo, in stato di povertà, dopo un momento, con il lavoro a Hollywood come sceneggiatore, in cui sembrava essersi ripreso anche economicamente ed era più sereno.
I tre articoli sono incredibilmente sinceri, scritti con uno stile più maturo, con grande profondità d'animo e mente. Chiunque abbia affrontato un momento no può rivedersi in queste parole e ricevere aiuto dalla sua sincerità.
Se Fitzgerald viene visto come il simbolo dell'età del jazz, un uomo dedito solo alle feste, un debole schiavo dell'alcool, queste pagine dimostrano che in realtà sapeva essere più onesto e migliore di tutti i "tosti" scrittori del periodo messi insieme.
October 15, 2009
This is a collection of autobiographical writings of Fitzgerald -- essays, letters, excerpts from his notebooks -- and it shows a man's downfall, a crisis with which I had not been expecting to care about as much as I ended up caring about it, and to my surprise, Fitzgerald pulling himself up out of the darkness and making a fresh start. It's so strange -- you expect him to be this tragic hero, but in the end he was trying to get back to normalcy and he had just a normal, run of the mill heart attack. I did not expect to like my hero. I had expected to find a man in these pages who was charming and clever, but who lacked a certain amount of character, someone who was selfish. But what I found was a man who loved his friends and was loved by them -- and I can tell the difference between people paying lip service and people loving -- a man who wrote these heart-breakingly sweet letters to his daughter, instructing her in the art of letters, a man who was an extremely hard worker, meticulous, who held himself to extremely high standards and who was not just clever but smart and very, very well read. I like my hero. I like him very much
March 2, 2024
Είναι ό, τι καλύτερο έχω διαβάσει τα τελευταία χρόνια.
Κι αν ο υπέροχος Γκατσμπυ με ενθουσίασε, Το Ράγισμα μου χάρισε σπάνιες στιγμές ευδαιμονίας (ναι, μέσα από ένα σπαρακτικό και τραγικό αφήγημα) όπου εκείνο το λεπτό νήμα ανάμεσα στον συγγραφέα και τον αναγνώστη κρατά ενωμένους αυτούς τους 2 ανά τα χρόνια, εις τους αιώνες των αιώνων.... Όσοι έχετε διαβάσει ένα βιβλίο που βρίσκει τον πυρήνα του είναι σας, θα με κατανοήσετε....
Το Ράγισμα σου ραγίζει την καρδιά και ταυτόχρονα σε απογειώνει, ο Φιτζέραλντ μιλά και συνομιλά σε πρώτο πρόσωπο, ακουμπώντας τον θησαυρό της ψυχής του στην καρδιά του αναγνώστη, σε ενεστώτα χρόνο, σα να μην γράφτηκε το 1936.
Μια μοναδική-σπάνια θα πω-συνάντηση που σφραγίζει την αγάπη που έχει κάποιος για την λογοτεχνία.
(αφού το τελείωσα, το άκουσα καπάκι για 2η φορά...δεν το έχω κάνει ποτέ για κανένα βιβλίο)
Κι αν ο υπέροχος Γκατσμπυ με ενθουσίασε, Το Ράγισμα μου χάρισε σπάνιες στιγμές ευδαιμονίας (ναι, μέσα από ένα σπαρακτικό και τραγικό αφήγημα) όπου εκείνο το λεπτό νήμα ανάμεσα στον συγγραφέα και τον αναγνώστη κρατά ενωμένους αυτούς τους 2 ανά τα χρόνια, εις τους αιώνες των αιώνων.... Όσοι έχετε διαβάσει ένα βιβλίο που βρίσκει τον πυρήνα του είναι σας, θα με κατανοήσετε....
Το Ράγισμα σου ραγίζει την καρδιά και ταυτόχρονα σε απογειώνει, ο Φιτζέραλντ μιλά και συνομιλά σε πρώτο πρόσωπο, ακουμπώντας τον θησαυρό της ψυχής του στην καρδιά του αναγνώστη, σε ενεστώτα χρόνο, σα να μην γράφτηκε το 1936.
Μια μοναδική-σπάνια θα πω-συνάντηση που σφραγίζει την αγάπη που έχει κάποιος για την λογοτεχνία.
(αφού το τελείωσα, το άκουσα καπάκι για 2η φορά...δεν το έχω κάνει ποτέ για κανένα βιβλίο)
Read
September 22, 2022Si tratta di un testo breve dello stesso Fitzgerald,
scritto intorno ai quarant'anni e molto
criticato da amici e colleghi del tempo.
Qui indica le ragioni per cui ha compiuto certe scelte da giovane (nello studio e nel lavoro) e parla in sostanza di quella sensazione di crollo di ogni certezza che è stata sua compagna per tutta la vita.
Bello.
scritto intorno ai quarant'anni e molto
criticato da amici e colleghi del tempo.
Qui indica le ragioni per cui ha compiuto certe scelte da giovane (nello studio e nel lavoro) e parla in sostanza di quella sensazione di crollo di ogni certezza che è stata sua compagna per tutta la vita.
Bello.
March 21, 2017
You got to give it to F. Scott Fitzgerald, and many did. He was the hipster of his generation, maybe the first of the many annoying youth movements to piss off 20th century old people, and he got criticized for it since the publication of his bestselling THIS SIDE OF PARADISE to damning opinion pieces printed before the ink dried on his obituary.
Dead at 44 and washed up years before that on the shores of Hollywood, he deserves a bit more credit than as merely the poster child for the Roaring 20s. He might prefer Gertrude Stein’s famous moniker, as a member of the Lost Generation. That seems more fitting to me after reading THE CRACK-UP, a collection of later essays, notebooks, letters, articles, reminiscences and poems by or about Fitzgerald.
The book is edited by Fitzgerald’s old friend Edmund Wilson, who deserves much credit too for kind of inventing a new form of literature that took Fitzgerald’s first-person literary confessional (itself ahead of its time) and created a collage portrait of the man, almost cubist in its varying perspectives.
Not all of it works, at least not in parts. The notebook section is long and fragmented, by design, and a bit hit or miss. The opening salvo of essays are good, but for me the prose could be precious and overdone. The letters are fascinating, and the ending of the book, with its praise of the publication of THE GREAT GATSBY from Stein, T.S. Eliot and others, followed by post-mortem musings, is depressing.
But the whole thing comes together as unique, and that sticks with me. It makes me want to pick up some of his books. I’m curious about THE LAST TYCOON, the unfinished final novel. But I need a break from Fitzgerald. Too much bellyaching and opinions. Maybe I should investigate Wilson instead.
Dead at 44 and washed up years before that on the shores of Hollywood, he deserves a bit more credit than as merely the poster child for the Roaring 20s. He might prefer Gertrude Stein’s famous moniker, as a member of the Lost Generation. That seems more fitting to me after reading THE CRACK-UP, a collection of later essays, notebooks, letters, articles, reminiscences and poems by or about Fitzgerald.
The book is edited by Fitzgerald’s old friend Edmund Wilson, who deserves much credit too for kind of inventing a new form of literature that took Fitzgerald’s first-person literary confessional (itself ahead of its time) and created a collage portrait of the man, almost cubist in its varying perspectives.
Not all of it works, at least not in parts. The notebook section is long and fragmented, by design, and a bit hit or miss. The opening salvo of essays are good, but for me the prose could be precious and overdone. The letters are fascinating, and the ending of the book, with its praise of the publication of THE GREAT GATSBY from Stein, T.S. Eliot and others, followed by post-mortem musings, is depressing.
But the whole thing comes together as unique, and that sticks with me. It makes me want to pick up some of his books. I’m curious about THE LAST TYCOON, the unfinished final novel. But I need a break from Fitzgerald. Too much bellyaching and opinions. Maybe I should investigate Wilson instead.
December 10, 2008
I love that I can pick up this book, flip it to any random page and enjoy what I read.
December 17, 2025
Difficilmente così poche pagine mi hanno lasciato così tanto turbamento e così tanto disagio.
In questo trittico di racconti che fu pubbllicato sulla rivista Esquire, Fitzgerald usa la sua grande letteratura come fosse un bisturi su se stesso, compiendo insieme una analisi disincantata della sua condizione ed una feroce riflessione sul secondo tempo della "polvere di stelle": non il racconto di una caduta ma il racconto di quello che si vede da quaggiù, il Fondo.
Vale leggerlo anche solo per la FAVOLOSA postfazione di Ottavio Fatica.
In questo trittico di racconti che fu pubbllicato sulla rivista Esquire, Fitzgerald usa la sua grande letteratura come fosse un bisturi su se stesso, compiendo insieme una analisi disincantata della sua condizione ed una feroce riflessione sul secondo tempo della "polvere di stelle": non il racconto di una caduta ma il racconto di quello che si vede da quaggiù, il Fondo.
Vale leggerlo anche solo per la FAVOLOSA postfazione di Ottavio Fatica.
June 9, 2017
Tre articoli pubblicati su Esquire tra il febbraio e l'aprile del 1936, in cui FSF "confessa" ai lettori il crollo che ha subito la sua vita a partire dall'anno precedente.
Si paragona a un piatto rotto, la cui crepa si è formata lentamente, per un disfacimento interno che lui non è riuscito a percepire fino a che non è stato troppo tardi.
Fino al '35 aveva vissuto alti e bassi (alcuni ben noti), ma non aveva mai sentito venir meno l'ottimismo per cui il suo lavoro lo avrebbe fatto proseguire in un percorso che credeva simile alla traiettoria di una freccia scagliata con incredibile forza.
Invece poi tutto è crollato, è subentrata una grande stanchezza, e, quando il fisico si è infine ripreso, lo Scott che è emerso da questo abisso era un uomo diverso, un uomo che si è guardato dentro e non si è ritrovato, un uomo che ha deciso di smettere di recitare un ruolo («Mi accorsi che da molto tempo non mi piacevano più né le persone né le cose, ma mi limitavo a proseguire nella solita stenta messinscena.»).
La conclusione, amara, è un proposito ancora più drastico: «Dovevo continuare a essere uno scrittore perché quello e non altro era il mio modo di vivere, ma avrei desistito da ogni tentativo di essere una persona: di essere gentile, giusto o generoso. [...] Nondimeno mi adopererò per essere un animale corretto e, se mi getterete un osso con un po’ di carne da azzannare, potrei anche leccarvi la mano.».
PS: in fondo, a mo' di postfazione, c'è un saggio di Ottavio Fatica (il traduttore) che avrei tanto voluto apprezzare ma che ho trovato illeggibile.
Si paragona a un piatto rotto, la cui crepa si è formata lentamente, per un disfacimento interno che lui non è riuscito a percepire fino a che non è stato troppo tardi.
Fino al '35 aveva vissuto alti e bassi (alcuni ben noti), ma non aveva mai sentito venir meno l'ottimismo per cui il suo lavoro lo avrebbe fatto proseguire in un percorso che credeva simile alla traiettoria di una freccia scagliata con incredibile forza.
Invece poi tutto è crollato, è subentrata una grande stanchezza, e, quando il fisico si è infine ripreso, lo Scott che è emerso da questo abisso era un uomo diverso, un uomo che si è guardato dentro e non si è ritrovato, un uomo che ha deciso di smettere di recitare un ruolo («Mi accorsi che da molto tempo non mi piacevano più né le persone né le cose, ma mi limitavo a proseguire nella solita stenta messinscena.»).
La conclusione, amara, è un proposito ancora più drastico: «Dovevo continuare a essere uno scrittore perché quello e non altro era il mio modo di vivere, ma avrei desistito da ogni tentativo di essere una persona: di essere gentile, giusto o generoso. [...] Nondimeno mi adopererò per essere un animale corretto e, se mi getterete un osso con un po’ di carne da azzannare, potrei anche leccarvi la mano.».
PS: in fondo, a mo' di postfazione, c'è un saggio di Ottavio Fatica (il traduttore) che avrei tanto voluto apprezzare ma che ho trovato illeggibile.
September 23, 2021
"—Waste and horror—what I might have been and done that is lost, spent, gone, dissipated, unrecapturable. I could have acted thus, refrained from this, been bold where I was timid, cautious where I was rash.I left myself The Crack-Up—the last work by Scott Fitzgerald that I had not yet read—for a long time, not quite ready to be finished with him, so to speak. And, in fact, reading the pieces collected and edited by Edmund Wilson in The Crack-Up only reopened the delicate wound that I think everyone who loves that beautiful and tragic man has somewhere within. It is easily touched and agitated—there is just something so moving about the man, his life, and his writing (all entangled).
I need not have hurt her like that.
Nor said this to him.
Nor broken myself trying to break what was unbreakable.
The horror has come now like a storm—what if this night prefigured the night after death—what if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the edge of an abyss, with everything base and vicious in oneself urging one forward and the baseness and viciousness of the world just ahead. No choice, no road, no hope—only the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic. (67)
I had actually already read a number of the pieces included in The Crack-Up—Echoes of the Jazz Age, My Lost City, "Show Mr. and Mrs. F. to Number—", and Early Success are included in another edition published by New Directions, The Jazz Age: Essays. Nevertheless, there was more than enough in the collection to fascinate; first and foremost, the titular The Crack-Up, which is Fitzgerald's own account of his breakdown, but also the selection of notebooks and letters as well as a number of interesting essays about Fitzgerald by his contemporaries.
To quote from Fitzgerald's short story The Ice Palace:
"I can't tell you how real it is to me, darling—if you don't know.
January 6, 2013
I love how perfectly Fitzgerald crafts and imparts an imaginative moment or character. The 120+ pages of notes in this collection are a treat, though it's best to read them in 20 page increments to give each "bullet point" opportunity to set in without being obscured by the multitude. I found myself wishing at many points that Fitzgerald had developed *this situation* or *that character* in a full-length work (whether novel, short story or play). His creative well seemed to be bottomless and the incredible number of notes made me think that there actually could be value in carrying around a moleskine notebook to record otherwise-fleeting thoughts. Ugh, I can't believe I wrote that. But what have I missed in my own life (intellectual and otherwise) by failing to record something in the moment, either to stand alone in its entirety or to be called forth for deeper reflection later? I'm certainly no Fitzgerald, and never attempt at anything remotely creative in the fictional literary sense (I suck, trust me on this), but this collection demonstrates the value of little, passing thoughts. In addition, it rounded out Fitzgerald the man in a way that strict biographies, his oeuvre, letters and literary criticism can't quite manage on their own. The notes reveal his creative imagination in its rawest form as well as snippets of his emotional and intellectual life and development.
The essays and letters are very poignant, as well, revealing a man very insecure, delicate and uncertain (yet certain in his writerly expertise). And it should be mentioned that he was quite a snob and held some gross views on women and minorities. As much as I despise that part of him, I still love his fiction and view him in an unabashedly romanticized light as THE larger-than-life figure in the Jazz Age. And in my head he will always look like a blonde Loki with a middle part, thanks to Avengers, Thor and Midnight in Paris. Yum.
First finished: May 1, 2007 (Though I may not have officially "finished" it -- I wasn't responsible for writing a review of it in grad school, so who knows how much I read! Just enough to talk about it intelligibly?)
The essays and letters are very poignant, as well, revealing a man very insecure, delicate and uncertain (yet certain in his writerly expertise). And it should be mentioned that he was quite a snob and held some gross views on women and minorities. As much as I despise that part of him, I still love his fiction and view him in an unabashedly romanticized light as THE larger-than-life figure in the Jazz Age. And in my head he will always look like a blonde Loki with a middle part, thanks to Avengers, Thor and Midnight in Paris. Yum.
First finished: May 1, 2007 (Though I may not have officially "finished" it -- I wasn't responsible for writing a review of it in grad school, so who knows how much I read! Just enough to talk about it intelligibly?)
January 12, 2019
Quattro stelle per i tre brani di F.S.Fitzgerald. Parla di se stesso, della depressione che lo ha colto, della disillusione: una sincerità disarmante e commovente.
Per quanto riguarda le note al testo: potevano essere messe in modo tradizionale, con dei numerini dal brano alla relativa nota perchè scritte così in fondo tutte insieme sono piuttosto inutili (specialmente se si sta usando un e-reader).
La critica finale è scritta in maniera criptica, infarcita di termini arcaici con frasi dalla struttura bizzarra che bisogna rileggere più volte per capire qual è il soggetto, quale il complemento oggetto, se ce ne sono... Insomma sembra scritta per NON farsi capire. Quindi poteva tenersela sul suo comodino, che una "roba" incomprensibile ai lettori non serve.
Per quanto riguarda le note al testo: potevano essere messe in modo tradizionale, con dei numerini dal brano alla relativa nota perchè scritte così in fondo tutte insieme sono piuttosto inutili (specialmente se si sta usando un e-reader).
La critica finale è scritta in maniera criptica, infarcita di termini arcaici con frasi dalla struttura bizzarra che bisogna rileggere più volte per capire qual è il soggetto, quale il complemento oggetto, se ce ne sono... Insomma sembra scritta per NON farsi capire. Quindi poteva tenersela sul suo comodino, che una "roba" incomprensibile ai lettori non serve.
July 31, 2016
Of the sixteen short stories in this book, the first few are probably reflecting young Fitzgerald's experiences in first loves, all very pleasant reading.
Then comes the Travel period, which reminds me a lot of Hemingway's "A movable feast", in which the Fitzgerald couple where partly involved.
With "The crack up" comes the explanation of the authors tragic and sad ending.
Then comes the Travel period, which reminds me a lot of Hemingway's "A movable feast", in which the Fitzgerald couple where partly involved.
With "The crack up" comes the explanation of the authors tragic and sad ending.
February 26, 2022
i've always said i would die to read f. scott fitzgerald's grocery list and with this, i sort of did :)
March 25, 2017
Edmund Wilson collected the posthumous essays, letters, and notebooks of F. Scott Fitzgerald, along with a variety of essays by contemporaries in the 1945 collection entitled The Crack-Up. The piece contains previously unpublished work creative nonfiction musings on events and philosophical reflections from his life as well as over a hundred and fifty fragments of stories and creative musings that were meticulously rewritten, organized, and curated by Fitzgerald before his death. The imagery collected in these fragmented narratives and stark reflective exploded moments used in this larger chunk of the volume bears the most impact on craft, exploring theme with clause-level obsessiveness.
In the nonfiction essays, the most common thematic ideas surrounded his obsession with his own successes. Fitzgerald’s lamentation is most evident in taut prose reflecting a nostalgia for a fame that he has fallen from in the ensuing years he wrote the pieces in the collection – the years leading to his early death. The tone of his sentences reflect a whimsical nostalgia that changes to an omen of artificiality. One such reflection is evident in writing about his honeymoon, peppered with "Sibylline parrots...protesting the sway of the first bobbled heads in the Biltmore panelled luxe" that transitions to a "hotel...trying to look older" (41)...and years later on a trip to Bermuda, the couple "cynically moved" in response to newlyweds "scintillat(ing) so persistently in eachother's eyes" (55). This trip would become the couple's final voyage abroad. Essentially, it is through this awareness of structure and word choice that directs the sails of his prose, and his hyperawareness of choosing to present a "sea pav(ing a) deserted shore" at the beginning of a paragraph and leads the audience to an almost empty hotel where our couple is dining accompanied only by waiters (waiting for the end of their shift) and "could hardly eat (their) meals" by the end of the paragraph that encapsulates a stark command of his use of language to direct his audience (54-55).
The title essay is perhaps the most enlightening and representative of Fitzgerald's prose in the collection as a whole. The Crack-Up examines the author's somewhat foggy nervous breakdown and institutionalization after being unable to process the years of unfolding unhealthy expectations developed in his early successes. He sees his spiritual failures as partially something that came from the outside, and partially something internal that he didn't feel "until (suddenly) it's too late to do anything about... never be(ing) as good a man again" (69). Fitzgerald's life was one lived hard, leading to his early death less than four years after writing this essay. He figured "up to forty-nine it'll be alright," however forty-nine was an age that he would never reach, spending large portions of this essay administering a harsh opinion of his failures. This is evident in the clockwork of his prose as he suffers from “common professional, domestic, and personal (ills, with his ego) continu(ing) as an arrow shot from nothingness to nothingness with such force that only gravity would bring it to earth at last" (70). Fitzgerald wanted to be alone more than anything, and "arranged a certain insulation from ordinary cares" by indulging in pointless tasks such as making lists of pop culture figures. These mindless activities would make him feel better, but eventually led him to crack like an old plate (71-2). As he was recovering, he analyzed his own existence as "cracked crockery...kept in service as a household necessity" but facing a discouragement that was "a germ of its own...like an over-extension of the flank,...a call upon physical resources that I did not command,...an impact...more violent...a deflation of all...craft and industry... (all) convictions swept away" (75, 77). The essay deteriorates all semblance of the importance of craft by presenting complex ideas while at the same time deconstructing the value of the work we are reading, observing through the fourth wall of the text directly to the audience that he "has doubts as to whether this is of general interest," asking us to whisper our request for him to keep writing so as not to invoke anger at God or Lenin's refusal to maintain and foster his talents (79).
The largest section of the volume presents meticulous snippets of Fitzgerald's mastery of sentence and clause-level work from his notebooks. Taken completely out of intellectual and contextual context, these snippets provide the opportunity to examine Fitzgerald's focus on the micro separately from the macro, and his own thematic organization of the notebooks toward the end of his life compliment his intentions regardless of the snippets being independent of a longer work. While there is little else to do but explore a facsimile of the collection as a whole, it is not outside of the realm of possibility to choose some selections of one set and see the short genius in both the phrasing and the transitions in "D: Descriptions of Things" from "stifling as curtain dust," to "the pavements grew sloppier and the snow in the gutters melted into dirty sherbet," to "...the Europa – a moving island of light... grew larger minute by minute, swelled into harmonious fairy-land with music from its deck and searchlights playing on land with music from its own deck and searchlights playing on its own length" (118).
In my own work, it is clear to me that Fitzgerald's command over his writing allows for incredibly well-conceived sentences that leave no wasted words in the crafting of each individual sentence. In the notebooks in particular, his work's focus on single-sentence perfection is heightened when the sentences are isolated for individual, decontextualized study. Overall, The Crack-Up is a text that shines as a result of the frank conversation on the craft and the life that Fitzgerald presents along with errata that is incredibly powerful in its written prowess.
In the nonfiction essays, the most common thematic ideas surrounded his obsession with his own successes. Fitzgerald’s lamentation is most evident in taut prose reflecting a nostalgia for a fame that he has fallen from in the ensuing years he wrote the pieces in the collection – the years leading to his early death. The tone of his sentences reflect a whimsical nostalgia that changes to an omen of artificiality. One such reflection is evident in writing about his honeymoon, peppered with "Sibylline parrots...protesting the sway of the first bobbled heads in the Biltmore panelled luxe" that transitions to a "hotel...trying to look older" (41)...and years later on a trip to Bermuda, the couple "cynically moved" in response to newlyweds "scintillat(ing) so persistently in eachother's eyes" (55). This trip would become the couple's final voyage abroad. Essentially, it is through this awareness of structure and word choice that directs the sails of his prose, and his hyperawareness of choosing to present a "sea pav(ing a) deserted shore" at the beginning of a paragraph and leads the audience to an almost empty hotel where our couple is dining accompanied only by waiters (waiting for the end of their shift) and "could hardly eat (their) meals" by the end of the paragraph that encapsulates a stark command of his use of language to direct his audience (54-55).
The title essay is perhaps the most enlightening and representative of Fitzgerald's prose in the collection as a whole. The Crack-Up examines the author's somewhat foggy nervous breakdown and institutionalization after being unable to process the years of unfolding unhealthy expectations developed in his early successes. He sees his spiritual failures as partially something that came from the outside, and partially something internal that he didn't feel "until (suddenly) it's too late to do anything about... never be(ing) as good a man again" (69). Fitzgerald's life was one lived hard, leading to his early death less than four years after writing this essay. He figured "up to forty-nine it'll be alright," however forty-nine was an age that he would never reach, spending large portions of this essay administering a harsh opinion of his failures. This is evident in the clockwork of his prose as he suffers from “common professional, domestic, and personal (ills, with his ego) continu(ing) as an arrow shot from nothingness to nothingness with such force that only gravity would bring it to earth at last" (70). Fitzgerald wanted to be alone more than anything, and "arranged a certain insulation from ordinary cares" by indulging in pointless tasks such as making lists of pop culture figures. These mindless activities would make him feel better, but eventually led him to crack like an old plate (71-2). As he was recovering, he analyzed his own existence as "cracked crockery...kept in service as a household necessity" but facing a discouragement that was "a germ of its own...like an over-extension of the flank,...a call upon physical resources that I did not command,...an impact...more violent...a deflation of all...craft and industry... (all) convictions swept away" (75, 77). The essay deteriorates all semblance of the importance of craft by presenting complex ideas while at the same time deconstructing the value of the work we are reading, observing through the fourth wall of the text directly to the audience that he "has doubts as to whether this is of general interest," asking us to whisper our request for him to keep writing so as not to invoke anger at God or Lenin's refusal to maintain and foster his talents (79).
The largest section of the volume presents meticulous snippets of Fitzgerald's mastery of sentence and clause-level work from his notebooks. Taken completely out of intellectual and contextual context, these snippets provide the opportunity to examine Fitzgerald's focus on the micro separately from the macro, and his own thematic organization of the notebooks toward the end of his life compliment his intentions regardless of the snippets being independent of a longer work. While there is little else to do but explore a facsimile of the collection as a whole, it is not outside of the realm of possibility to choose some selections of one set and see the short genius in both the phrasing and the transitions in "D: Descriptions of Things" from "stifling as curtain dust," to "the pavements grew sloppier and the snow in the gutters melted into dirty sherbet," to "...the Europa – a moving island of light... grew larger minute by minute, swelled into harmonious fairy-land with music from its deck and searchlights playing on land with music from its own deck and searchlights playing on its own length" (118).
In my own work, it is clear to me that Fitzgerald's command over his writing allows for incredibly well-conceived sentences that leave no wasted words in the crafting of each individual sentence. In the notebooks in particular, his work's focus on single-sentence perfection is heightened when the sentences are isolated for individual, decontextualized study. Overall, The Crack-Up is a text that shines as a result of the frank conversation on the craft and the life that Fitzgerald presents along with errata that is incredibly powerful in its written prowess.
September 16, 2025
Well, that was depressing, and not at all in a romantic way. I don't know, what shall we conclude, he suffered manic depression. The way he compared his deep happiness with the economic boom and then his self loathing or however he termed it to the despair that swept the nation when the boom was over. Indeed depressing, his silent and "scathing analysis" he'd bestow unto others, the definitive resignation from any and all considerations for others, allowing any potential of pleasantries to be swept away. A shame really. As a fan, it's rather sad. Oh, and I'm not sure what even did it. He had that time where he went so long without working or thinking and sleeping something like twenty hours a day and he seemed to be ready to you know, join society again, but then "he cracked like an old plate when he heard the news." I don't know, I could research it, but maybe I need a break from the sad realities of one of my favorites. Maybe I need something that ends with "a noble thanks to the Gods for the unconquerable soul."
Displaying 1 - 30 of 285 reviews