Of the copious new writers that rose to fame with the arrival of the post-war age, Scott Fitzgerald has continued as the most consistent and entertaining performer. Short stories, novels and a play have followed with steady uniformity since he developed the philosophy of the flapper with "This Side of Paradise." With astute reflection and comicality, he recounted the Jazz Age. Now he has bid adieu to his flappers-perhaps due to maturity - and is writing of the older sisters that have married. However, matrimony has not altered their world, only the milieu of their merrymakings. To use a saying of Burton Rascoe's-his hurt romantics are still seeking that other side of paradise. One could add that "The Great Gatsby" is the last phase of delusion
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Daisy, his wife, was a distant cousin. When he moved East, Nick was asked to call at their place at East Egg. The post-war reactions were at their pinnacle - every soul was restless – each person sought a surrogate for the thrill of the war years. Buchanan had acquired another woman. Daisy was jaded, damaged in spirit and mistreated. Gatsby, his gatherings and his enigmatic fortune were the chatter of the hour. At the Buchanans, Nick came across Jordan Baker; through them both Daisy once more meets Gatsby, to whom she was engaged before marrying Buchanan. The inexorable outcome that follows, in which ferocity takes its toll, is almost incidental, for in the nuances - and this is a tome of effective overtones – the degeneration of humanities is more catastrophic. With subtle acumen and keen psychological surveillance, Fitzgerald divulges in these people a callousness of spirit, negligence and absenteeism of allegiance. He cannot hate them, for they are dumb in their insentient egotism, and only to be pitied. The philosopher of the flapper has absconded the astringent, but he has turned serious. Gatsby is a curious book, a magical, dazzling story of the Roaring Twenties. It takes a more profound cut at life than hitherto had been relished by Mr. Fitzgerald. He wrote well-he always did-for he writes naturally, and his sense of form is becoming
Daisy, his wife, was a distant cousin. When he moved East, Nick was asked to call at their place at East Egg. The post-war reactions were at their pinnacle - every soul was restless – each person sought a surrogate for the thrill of the war years. Buchanan had acquired another woman. Daisy was jaded, damaged in spirit and mistreated. Gatsby, his gatherings and his enigmatic fortune were the chatter of the hour. At the Buchanans, Nick came across Jordan Baker; through them both Daisy once more meets Gatsby, to whom she was engaged before marrying Buchanan. The inexorable outcome that follows, in which ferocity takes its toll, is almost incidental, for in the nuances - and this is a tome of effective overtones – the degeneration of humanities is more catastrophic. With subtle acumen and keen psychological surveillance, Fitzgerald divulges in these people a callousness of spirit, negligence and absenteeism of allegiance. He cannot hate them, for they are dumb in their insentient egotism, and only to be pitied. The philosopher of the flapper has absconded the astringent, but he has turned serious. Gatsby is a curious book, a magical, dazzling story of the Roaring Twenties. It takes a more profound cut at life than hitherto had been relished by Mr. Fitzgerald. He wrote well-he always did-for he writes naturally, and his sense of form is becoming