“when F. Scott Fitzgerald composed a eulogy for the 1920s, a joyful ten-year period that was obviously “as dead as were the Yellow Nineties in 1902.”1 His essay, “Echoes of the Jazz Age,” was both a farewell and a confession of his own failure and despair. “Somebody had blundered and the most expensive orgy in history was over.” As he published those words, in Scribner’s Magazine, it was November, 1931, and he was broke, cracked up, a Gatsby in pieces. The spree that had “bore him up, flatte...red him, and gave him more money than he had dreamed of” had dissipated into a blur of memory: Good-bye to the whoopee flappers and their hip-flask Romeos. Good-bye to speakeasies that served Bushmills Irish Whiskey in thick white mugs. Good-bye to knees, round and rosy, that had disappeared, again, as skirts dropped. Good-bye to the Oak Park boy, at La Closerie des Lilas in Paris, using lead pencils to write clean sentences in blue notebooks.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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