What I’d Die for You tells us about Fitzgerald’s troubled final years. And how he turned personal tragedy into his best work.
The American icon was always meant to be a novelist, never a screenwriter.
With the writers we read again and again, our interpretation of their stories and legacies tends to change over time.
On Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the sexual anxiety of the Lost Generation for The Paris Review
The neurology behind why creatives are so often depressed — and why they tend to make awful lovers
Dim lighting and ambient noise may lead to more out-of-the-box ideas.
Ernest Hemingway And you prop your legs over his shoulders. And they are warm. He is warm. His forehead is sweaty. Your legs are tired. But you are not tired. He begins. He finishes. You finish. Perhaps not until later. By yourself. It is a cycle. The fan spins on you, on him, on your legs. Your mind begins to wander. It was pleasant. Not good. But not bad. He proved strong and capable in the face of a task. This is all you can ask of him. Jean-Paul Sartre I wonder what the meaning of my existence is if Simone can give me so much carnal pleasure? For if my existence is meaningless then God is not real; yet if God were real and Man were real than God would necessarily reduce Man to a mere object. Perhaps that is exactly it. Perhaps I am a mere object in her hands, malleable like sexualized clay, my existential existence constructed entirely by her. Oh, but she is not God! There is no omniscient being even …