In case you haven’t figured out based on yesterday’s post, I’ve got a thing for F. Scott Fitzgerald. Handsome, tortured, but absolutely brilliant, his prose was as gloriously beautiful and tragic as his life, and I can never get enough of either. In fact, if Doc Brown showed up with a Delorean, there’s no era I’d rather visit than the one he inhabited. Sadly, I don’t have a time machine at my disposal. I do, however, have a car, which delivers me to Baltimore, Maryland each summer, where Fitzgerald spent five years of his life while Zelda was institutionalized. These visits include a trip to his final resting place (as seen in my prior post), a trip to one of his residences (the archway pictured above) and lunch at The Owl Bar, one of his favorite and frequent watering holes (he even threw a Sweet Sixteen bash for daughter Scottie at The Owl). For whatever reason, I find melancholy pleasure in walking the streets of his neighborhood and having a drink in his bar, often wishing for Owen Wilson’s experience in Woody Allen’s sublime time travel fantasy, Midnight in Paris. Would that I could venture back to have just such a chance encounter with the man, to tell him it would all work out so much better than he could have ever expected. Perhaps I hope my words would make a difference, but for as much as I hope they would, even I know they probably wouldn’t have changed much. But as The Doctor pointed out to Amy Pond in the fabulous Van Gogh episode of Doctor Who, “…every life is a pile of good things and bad things….the good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don’t necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.”
….and you will always be important, Mr. Fitzgerald.