(A very belated post.)
There was some excitement back in August about a lost F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, which was published this summer in The New Yorker 76 years after its initial rejection.
The story, well, it was one of Scott’s, and for me, that means more than any subsequent flurry of belated criticism.  Because whatever the merits of this story (it does nothing to chance anyone’s opinion of its author), I was able to believe for a minute that the year was 1936 and that I could open up my newspaper eager to find a new Fitzgerald inside.  I miss all my favorite authors.  But if great literature is inevitable insofar that it is almost the predetermined product of its age, perhaps Fitzgerald’s ghost had good reason to wait around for us, too.

(A very belated post.)

There was some excitement back in August about a lost F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, which was published this summer in The New Yorker 76 years after its initial rejection.

The story, well, it was one of Scott’s, and for me, that means more than any subsequent flurry of belated criticism.  Because whatever the merits of this story (it does nothing to chance anyone’s opinion of its author), I was able to believe for a minute that the year was 1936 and that I could open up my newspaper eager to find a new Fitzgerald inside.  I miss all my favorite authors.  But if great literature is inevitable insofar that it is almost the predetermined product of its age, perhaps Fitzgerald’s ghost had good reason to wait around for us, too.