F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life was immensely unstable. From the time of his childhood up until his unexpected death, he was taken along for many unplanned turns. He lifts himself from obscurity to fame after he drops out of Princeton. After some time of writing for magazines he writes his first novel. It sells widely and gives him the first large amount of money that funds the luxurious lifestyle that he indulges in for the duration of the Jazz Age.

At the end of the era America and Fitzgerald’s life begin to deteriorate simultaneously. The stock market crashes while his books stop selling, Zelda’s mental health declines, his money runs out and his alcoholism gets a stronger hold on him. A silver lining appears in the form of  possible screenwriter credits. He manages to procure one, is unsatisfied with it since it ends up being rewritten by the producer. Another downfall following so many in addition to his disrepaired reputation. At this point he decides to undertake a new book. Working on it puts him back in good spirits. He is the Fitzgerald of old, putting in 16 hour days and waking up excited to write. He had a renewed craving for life. His passion for writing restored to it’s old level love. I believe that he would have improved if it hadn’t been for his abrupt end. He was pulling himself back together, but ultimately the ill he had done earlier in life pulled him apart.

Fitzgerald was not at all adept at responding to complex emotional situations. The first crutch that he would fall to is alcohol. He could go for long periods of time sober, but was also capable of consuming copious amounts of liquor when he allowed it to himself. The second is Sheilah Graham. When Zelda was in the mental hospital he began an affair with her. Although he would never divorce Zelda for her, she served as a placebo. Sheilah is Zelda’s placeholder for Fitzgerald even though he knows what he really wants is not coming back.   

The depression that Fitzgerald suffered from may also have been an extension of a fear rooted in his childhood. His father was fired from his job when Fitzgerald was a young boy. It left him a broken man. They were essentially supported by Fitzgerald’s mother’s family from then on. He was categorized as a failure for the rest of his life. Young Scott was privy to this as well. He could see the negative turn his father had taken and worked to never be a failure himself. Fitzgerald reached great heights, but it is possible that the valleys he fell in in some years of his life reminded him of his father.   

Second Fiction Piece

It’s 5:45. I’m preparing for my morning run. If I’m feeling really good… or bad I might go out up to three times in a day. I’m excited to get out this morning. I’ve missed running these past four days. Work and other responsibilities really got in the way. I don’t usually let that happen, but sometimes I run into emergencies that can’t be left until the last minute.

The air is pleasantly cool when I open the front door. I begin walking to the corner towards the main street. I live on a cul de  sac, so my destination is a little ways. It’s convenient because it serves as my warm up. I am coming close to the park that marks the point where I start my jog. I am a fan of this park. It has a merry-go-round and several swings. My favorite attractions at playgrounds. They are also the least safe. That probably has something to do with my preferences. I was never one for safety. I’ve always hated anything that had to do with overprotectiveness. I have a tendency to do what I want and deal with the consequences as they come.

Once I reach the I pick up the pace. My muscles fall into the rhythm I’ve trained them to know. They have been ready to do this for a while. I know that I’ll be sore tomorrow. It’s been a little too long. My breathing and heart rate both increase. I pass the Menchies I may or may not stop by at the end of my run. If I don’t I’ll be proud of myself for resisting temptation. If I do I’ll have a delicious reward at the end of my run. I’m winning either way.

The sweat is falling freely now. I’ll be drenched all the way through within twenty minutes. Another twenty-five and the endorphins kick in. This is reason l kept running. Not solely, but mostly because I am addicted to this pleasurable blend of endogenous and morphine. I would live in this state, but I guess it wouldn’t be as special if it was a constant state.

Hemingway and Pound

Hemingway’s relationship with Ezra Pound was very beneficial to Hemingway. Pound was a role model and most likely the only person Hemingway saw in this light. He admires Pound’s character so much that he goes so far as to call him “a saint.” Pound surely demonstrates the kindness of one when he organizes the charity Bel Esprit to support T.S. Eliot to make it possible for him to retire from banking in order to devote to writing full time. Hemingway adopts this project as readily as if it was his own idea. He solicits donations from friends against the wishes of Eliot, who is not in favor of Heminway tricking people into thinking that they are financing an ex enlisted man. In the end, Eliot manages to find his own source of sufficient money to extract himself from the banking business. This hurts Hemingway more than it should. He wanted the scholarship partnership between himself and Pound to be the reason Eliot began to write professionally. Whether he takes this to heart so severely is due to the fact that it was done in partnership with Pound is not stated.

This loyal adoration of Pound also meant that Hemingway felt protective of him as well. He took it upon himself to make sure that Pound was shown in his best light even when it came to activities as inconsequential as boxing. When they were sparring in Pound’s studio one afternoon Hemingway knew the other man was out of practice, so he went easy on Pound so that he would not look bad in front of his “friend.” The “friend” was Wyndham Lewis. The man immediately gave Hemingway vibes that told him that Lewis was observing only to see Pound fail. There was a sleazy air about him that Hemingway attempted to ignore at future meetings, but was unable to do. He shared these thoughts with Gertrude Stein who herself called him a ‘Measuring Worm’ for the way he measured people’s paintings so that he could then return to London where he did inaccurate recreations of them. He does not share his or Stein’s feelings with Pound, but he is always sure to watch Lewis very carefully whenever they meet.

Hemingway was not wrong to enjoy Pound’s company. He seemed to be a sensitive, observant person who made for pleasant company. His poem ‘Portrait d’une femme’ describes a woman with whom the author seems to have an interest in. He is aware of both her beauty and imperfections that this is the way she is. There is no question as to if he would like to change her or not. What is written is the portrait of a woman. It is written as fact, giving the illusion of a lack of bias, but there is at least a small amount of it since a note of fondness can be detected.

Hamingway’s relationship with Ezra Pound was surely one of his most valued relationships. Hemingway learned something from almost everything Pound did. He continually taught Hemingway how to be more generous, thoughtful and kind. They shared a beneficial brotherly love and Hemingway would have been a different person without him.

Finished Fiction

I need to get out. Everything has been weighing on me for weeks now. Staying in the apartment is like letting them marinate in a small pot. A very small pot. The apartment is tiny and too small for my problems. I will surely implode if I don’t get outside soon. There at least, the problems can float around my head instead of crushing me the way they are in here. Maybe they crush me in here because the walls are too close. I wonder how much my troubles would press me if we were living  in a place that was actually big enough for all of us.

Deciding this pontification could take place outside, I grab my camera, Coco, her leash and nothing else. I silently walk passed my mother, who is watching TV in her room and go outside.

Just as I knew they would, my worries disperse. I imagine them as molecules in a jar, put into a slightly larger one. All of them are still there. Their situation is the same in both places. One jar just gives them more room to bounce around in.

The reason for these problems is that it’s mid April and I still don’t know what college I’m going to. I’ve been accepted to all my back up schools, but my second choice hasn’t sent a response. At this point in the game I have assumed that I’m not accepted. Everyone I know that applied to my top choice has already accepted. Beyond this, I don't even know how I expect to pay for college. Sometimes I blame my mother for not having prepared for her future better. I hold my dad at fault too, but most of the anger is usually directed towards her because she is the one I see every day. He lives in Georgia. They separated a couple years ago. I talk to him regularly and we see him sometimes. I prefer not to dwell on their relationship.

Part of the reason for my bad mood is the guilt of not having applied to any schools with significant photography programs. I remember being fascinated with Polaroids as a child and loving taking pictures with the disposable cameras I was always badgering my parents to buy me. The interest stayed with me. I took photography classes and eventually became good enough to make a business of doing headshots and photoshoots. Everyone has always praised my work and even I think I’m kind of good sometimes, but never good enough. I ultimately would like photograph landscapes around the world for a travel magazine, although I don’t know if this will ever happen. Since I have never been sure of myself, I persuaded myself that I didn’t need to go to a college with photography. The colleges I applied to were regular colleges where I can major in accounting, a safer career. I’m good at math, so I know I would enjoy it, but photography is above everything else. What I’ve come to realize, too little too late, is that I can’t do photography on the side because I would learn more and faster being in a school where I would be able to commit more hours to studying the craft. I love photography more than anything in the world, yet I am too scared to pursue it.

The place I have decided to walk to is somewhere I refer to as ‘The Hill’. It is simply a hill that is significantly higher up with a number of bigger expensive houses on it. It is only across the next main street behind where I live, yet I have never been over there. I have wanted to for a while, but the motivation to do as much walking as this exploration calls for has never come to me until now.

I can never walk into a rich or even well-off neighborhood neutrally. There is always a mixture of sadness, yearning and even some anger. I never allow myself to feel them acutely, but I am always aware of their presence.

The residents of this area are aware of me as well. It’s some time after six now. The street lights are on. I am currently passing a group of people talking outside of a house. They are all white as I expect the entire population of ‘The Hill’ is. I am approaching them and as expected, one or two of them look up at me. Their eyes follow me for a couple of seconds and after they are satisfied that I am not looking to start a trend of harassing multiple people at once with a medium sized multi-poo as an attack dog, they turn around. I am only barely annoyed by this occurrance. I knew it was coming.

Suddenly a thought strikes me. I pick up my camera. Raise it to my eye and snap a picture. One of the people who had been watching me before stares at me. I continue to walk by as if what I have just done is not abnormal and a possible invasion of privacy. I wonder if they’re all looking at me now, but I don’t look back.

After walking for maybe thirty more minutes I begin to wonder when I will reach the top. The single street I have been walking on is winding. It’s impossible to tell that it curves this much from the bottom. I begin to estimate how long it takes to get up there by car. Ten minutes? What an inconvenience to arrive at your street only to have to drive an additional ten minutes up the mountain you live on. It must be hard being rich.  

I have come across a house that has caught my attention. It is by no means the most extravagant or appealing house on the block. It’s actually quite small and plain in comparison to the rest. I stop though, because it is one story with a flat roof. For some reason, I think of sitting on that roof and watching fireworks. It’s perfect for it. I know that if I lived in that house sitting on the roof would be it’s most important purpose. I take a picture of the house for all the nostalgic memories I never had there.  

Finally, we come to the top, which is cul de sac of the biggest houses yet. It’s good that we’re finally here because Coco has been walking slower than usual. She’s tired. None of us have ever walked her for this long.

This spot in the center of the street is the perfect place to see nearly the whole city. It’s dark now, so lights are on everywhere. Everything is twinkling beautifully below us. It isn’t every day that you get to look down on many of the places you frequent, unless of course, you are a person who lives on a hill. This is why people love looking out of airplanes so much. It’s amazing to look down and imagine life taking place on those microscopic streets and in the ant houses. It’s also hard to imagine that people live down there when everything is so incredibly small from this perspective. I wonder if that’s what people who live on hills think of those who don’t.  

The sun is completely down now. I didn’t make it up here fast enough, so I missed the sunset. That would have been nice to see. Even still, I am enjoying this view. It’s helped with the dejection I was feeling. Nothing has really changed. The problems molecules are still in that slightly jar, but my head is clearer. The walk hadn’t been for nothing though. I escaped them for a while.

It’s officially nighttime now. I wonder how long I’ve been out. I’m suddenly tired too. I’ve had my fill of impressive view. I decide that it’s time to start down the mountain. It takes half as long to get down as it did to get up. Downhill is so much easier and fun than up. Up is work, but you know. Anything worth doing….

The walk significantly alleviated the pressure that drove me from the apartment in the first place. I can think here again. I even feel like I might be able to figure something out to better my situation. Maybe I’ll start doing headshots. I don’t know if it will work, but I have to try. I need to at least work towards something that will get me closer to my goals.

Once I’m back inside I see that I have been gone for three hours. My mom greets me with a, “I was wondering where you went.” She doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I appreciate that. It makes me feel mature, and telling her where I went would probably include explaining why. I have no interest in doing that.

I head to the kitchen to stare at the freezer until I see something I will give in to eating. Coco comes in reminding me to take off her leash. I remove it idly, thinking of how I’m going to make everything right for myself. She then runs out of the room to find my sisters.

I still haven’t taken her on a walk as long as that one.

First story pt. 1

I needed to go out. Everything had been weighing on me for weeks now. Staying in the apartment would be like letting them marinate in a small pot. A very small pot. The apartment was tiny and too small for my problems. I would surely implode if I didn’t get outside soon. There at least, the problems would float around my head instead of crushing me the way they are in here. Maybe they crush me in here because the walls are too close. I wondered how much my troubles would press me if we lived in a place that was actually big enough for all of us.

Deciding this pontification could take place outside, I grabbed Coco, her leash and nothing else. I silently walked passed my mother who was watching TV in her room and went outside.

Just as I knew they would, my worries dispersed. I imagined them as molecules in a jar put into a slightly larger one. All of them are still there. Their situation is the same in both places. One jar gives them more room to bounce around in.

The reason for these problems is that it’s mid April and I still don’t know what college I’m going to. I was accepted at all my back up schools, but my second choice hasn’t sent a response. I have assumed that I wasn’t accepted. Everyone I know that applied was already accepted. Beyond this, I don't even know how I expect to pay for college. Sometimes I blame my mother for not having prepared for her future better. I hold my dad at fault too, but most of the anger is usually directed towards her because she is the one I see every day. There is also the guilt of not having applied to any schools with significant photography program. I remember being fascinated with Polaroids as a child and loving taking pictures with the disposable cameras I was always badgering my parents to buy me. The interest stayed with me and I took photography classes and eventually became good enough to make a business of doing headshots and photoshoots. Everyone has always praised my work and even I think I’m kind of good sometimes, but not good enough. I ultimately would like photograph landscapes around the world for a travel magazine. Though I’m not sure that will ever happen. Since I have never been sure of myself I persuaded myself that I didn’t need to go to a college with photography . I love it more than anything in the world, yet I am too scared to pursue it.

The place I have decided to walk to is somewhere I refer to as ‘The Hill’. It is simply a hill that is significantly higher up with a number of bigger expensive houses on it. It is only across the next main street behind where I live, yet I have never been over there. I have wanted to for a while, but the motivation to do as much walking as this exploration would call for had never come to me until now.

I can never walk into a rich or even well-off neighborhood neutrally. There is always a mixture of sadness, yearning and anger. I never allow myself to feel them acutely, but they always remind me that they are there.

Henry James

Henry James poetically titles the chapter of this book ‘Walking Up and Down China. It is poetic because choosing to symbolizes his feelings in this way is a nod to the colonization that was happening in China at this time with the country being taken over by the British. Colonization drastically changes a country and recreates it in the image of the conqueror. As a result of this a Chinese person might walk around China and not recognize it. Such severe alterations could make them feel as if they no longer belong in their own country. I would venture to argue that he uses this metaphor as a way of sympathizing with the Chinese man’s plight, but he counteracts the possibility of such a gesture by referring to the Chinese as Chinamen, which is a derogatory term. Despite his insensitivity, James still manages to illustrate a well-thought out parallel between his feelings and the political injustice that as occurring simultaneously.

This dissociation goes farther than not belonging to a place, but himself as well. James writes extensively of being out of his body a traveling to the moon and living countless immortalities. This happens so much so that at one particular reentrance into a body he has no memory of it and asks himself “with whose feet is [he] walking.” His inability to remember who he is in his own body illustrates how estranged he feels from it. He is not a Chinese person in his own land, but one in his own body as well. He has lost the last place to be comfortable when everything around you is unfamiliar. His soul, absolute self, what have you is all that he has he, but even that is uneasy since he yearns for an actual place and body to feel whole. Instead, he is subjected to strange “whooshing noises” he has come to know as the reattachment of his body to his soul. I would argue that it is actually the reverse, soul back to body, but James seems to think that his stagnant body is able to reanimate itself in order to rejoin his soul. This is yet another example that shows that he does not see his body as his. It is an organism that has the power to exist on it’s own and in his mind it does. His inability to, at the very least know that he controls his body and understand that it is the shell that houses who he is is the core of his entire dilemma.

Truth

Through analyzing certain aspects of Paris I have come to understand something about what constitutes as truth. It is not something that is always readily seen. At times it is just behind the surface, positioned for the assumed truth to seem as if it is what is real. Truth is supposed to be seeked out, but sometimes it is as if it is hiding.  

Artificial nature is an oxymoron.

The first question that walking in this park brought up for me is ‘if writers use walking in natural places to stimulate their creative processes, then can the park’s artificiality affect the process in some way? The first response to this question is probably “of course not,” because everything pretty much looks real. Nothing is readily fake. You kind of have to know or be looking for it. Despite this, I still continue to entertain the idea of a man-made park could still have a different effect on the writing, especially if the writer is aware of the fact it is an imitation. I still wonder if knowingly wandering in an artificial setting for inspiration possibly leave one lacking. Surely something man-made can not offer the same amount and type of creativity that naturalness provides.

Maybe having lookalike nature in a city is not as awkward as it sounds. Parks of this variety that are constructed in the same vein as New York’s Central Park are a break from the “citiness” of an industrial area. They are manufactured and built to look like a forest or place of abundant green. Sometimes they even successfully accomplish the illusion if you are standing somewhere in it’s middle with the trees placed strategically around you to block the buildings, cars and machines from view. It is probably a little more fitting than what makes sense at first glance to have fake things in a park such as this one. It, a fake thing is attempting to achieve a likeness to something that is real. This park does that with fake things. Maybe it is not the most logical, thing to do, but it does make sense.

Even though it is something of a patch-work park made of many plants that would never see each other in their own parts of the world, it is beautiful. Down many levels in the bowl of the park where you can not see any buildings if you tried. The place where you can effectively imagine that you are actually in a place with this many trees and much more wild life around you. If it were not for the hundreds of the stairs I climbed to emerge from the subway of the city that the park allows you escape from, I would have gone down there, but as the scientific law goes, any hill you easily stroll down you must have a not-fun time coming back up.

One other benefit of the park was it’s elevation. For me, being up high is one of those things that you don’t know you miss until you are experiencing it again. I had not consciously noticed that Paris is a large amount of flat land. It felt good (familiar) to be able to look down on a city and see more than is possible when you are standing in it. Elevation is a piece of home I didn’t know that I would heed although I am not surprised by my appreciation of it.

Had it been a warmer day, or if I had worn my heavier jacket, I would have walked the highest point of the park with with the thing I do not know the name of, but it is circular platform with a roof that is reminiscent, (at least for me) of what a small orchestra or just musicians use a stage if they were to give a performance in a park. It was beautiful to see especially with the sky being so grey as a backdrop. The rocks that had so much on them lended to the sight as well. If nothing else, I would imagine that this sight could at least inspire the setting of a story for a writer walking in this park with the hopes of gaining ideas from the place. I believed that any of the special places in this park would be helpful. Artificial trees and all.

Hearing this place described with all the fake rocks, plants and waterfalls that it has sounds like a park of forgery, but the park hold it’s own kind of truth. There is nowhere in a developed city that is fully natural. This park is real for what it is. It is a reminder of what is natural in a place that is surrounded with man made things.   

The evasiveness of truth is of course also found in people. Maybe even especially so.

Henry James does a considerable amount of analyzing Parisians in his essay “Occasional Paris”. He raises so many questions about the people that it leads one to wonder if there is a mystery of Paris. Parisians seem to have a certain ambiguity about them that James at least believes to be a quality that may solely belong to them. For example, they are a people widely known for their intellectual heights, yet they do not seem to show it. Meaning that they do not dress in a way that demonstrates sophistication by English standards. Their style of clothing- described as “bohemian” is not what Englishmen of this time, such as James recognized as an indication of cleverness. He nevertheless experiences a level of academia from Parisians as a whole that he finds impressive.

The puzzlement that is the Parisian continues in their choice of character to support in a play that is made up of disreputable people. In Demi-Monde is the struggle of a woman called Suzanne d’Ange who is “guilty of what the French call faults.” To combat the poor reputation she has inevitably made for herself by being such a woman d’Ange she must marry an upstanding man. Her only hopes for a better life in the unforgiving and sexist 19th century of France. She eventually gains the love of such a man, one Nanjac, only for the jealousy of a former lover, named de Jalin to undermine her progress with this decent gentleman who legitimately loves her. In the end de Jalin lies and to Nanjac about d’Ange. She has no choice, but to reveal herself to Nanjac who consequently leaves her. de Jalin wins and James points out that an American audience’s sympathies would lie with Ms. Suzanne. That an American audience is “more moral” than a French audience, implying that the French would be pleased by de Jalin’s victory. This would place them in direct oppositions to Americans who James predicts would see him as a “coward” who should “let the poor girl alone.”

This gives the French an interesting complexity. They are both smarter and more accepting of what western audiences would deem unfair. They are unforgiving. Either this, or they do not accept what is put in front of them, able to avoid the obvious with the help of their percipient minds. They might be able to see the pain that fuels his decisions. He is a man who was involved with a woman that is now on the verge of marrying a dear friend. Either he believes that he is actually helping Nanjac, or he sees this an opportunity. Whether the French view the disrepair of a life is justified comeuppance or overstep of entitlement, their perspective on de Jarin may be deeper than what an American would credit them for at first glance.

The French’s blatant show of affection amongst each other is another sample of progressed intellect. Most people in America especially have a hard time showing affection for one another, even between family members. To be able to express fondness for a person without awkwardness or stiffness shows a level of maturity and confidence in oneself is an act that can only be done by a sensible person. While this is true, there is another reasoning for the reason of why French people kiss instead of hug. Kissing is intimate, but it lacks the warmth of a hug. A hug requires touch and extreme close quarters. Kissing needs almost no contact and is a shorter task. This reason is more in line with other French characteristics, like their aversion to smiling at people. It seems that actions such as these are too special to share with people that they do not know.

 It is very likely that if you inspect underneath your initial understanding of something that you will find yet another truth.