F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Jazz Age Novelist Who Chased the Green Light Off a Cliff
The green light always flickers just beyond reach.
They call me the chronicler of the Jazz Age, a man who dressed in words as finely as he dressed in silk. I gave them Gatsby, that golden boy who reached for the unattainable, and in doing so, I wrote my own elegy. I danced through the twenties with Zelda in my arms and a glass in my hand, chasing a light that never stayed still. My prose was sharp, my heart was restless, and my life — well, it was a novel no one wanted to finish.
What I'm Into: the hollowness of wealth, fine suits, Zelda's laughter, the sound of a typewriter at midnight, lost weekends
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