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Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese…

Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (edition 2013)

by Therese Anne Fowler, Steven Seighman (Designer), Olga Grlic (Cover designer), Tom Clark (Photographer), Sasha (Photographer)1 more, Hope Dellon (Editor)

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1,350879,366 (3.82)55
A tale inspired by the marriage of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald follows their union in defiance of her father's opposition and her abandonment of the provincial finery of her upbringing in favor of a scandalous flapper identity that gains her entry into the literary party scenes of New York, Paris and the French Riviera.… (more)
Title:Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald
Authors:Therese Anne Fowler
Other authors:Steven Seighman (Designer), Olga Grlic (Cover designer), Tom Clark (Photographer), Sasha (Photographer), Hope Dellon (Editor)
Info:St. Martin's Press (2013), Edition: First Edition, Hardcover, 384 pages, Sixth Printing
Collections:Your library
Tags:1920s, biographical fiction

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Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald by Therese Anne Fowler


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Showing 1-5 of 87 (next | show all)
Well written and interesting novel told from the view of Zelda. I was drawn in and finished the book in three sittings. A very good read, even from the male perspective. ( )
  evil_cyclist | Mar 16, 2020 |
I liked the start, stalled in the middle and set it aside for a month. I started it back again just as they meet Hemingway. Having read Hemingway's Wife a few months ago, this part was a faster read.

So much of the story is a sad reflection on society at the time...insulin shock treatments and morphine because she want true to her role as a devoted wife, scary.

Scottie went to Vassar and there was just a bit about her in the Quarterly. Her papers are there. What a life. ( )
  edutechteacher | Dec 6, 2019 |
I have been a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald for most of my life and have heard many stories about his troubled marriage to his wife Zelda. This novel tells their story from Zelda's view and it is a sad one. Though he loved Zelda, he didn't understand her or what she needed from him.
Since I already knew, somewhat, of the story before reading this novel, there weren't many surprises, but there were some. I didn't know that Fitzgerald and Hemingway were friends or that Zelda blamed him for the troubles in her marriage to Scott. It seemed to me, after reading this novel, that Fitzgerald was a better friend to Hemingway than Hemingway was to him.
The focus of this novel isn't on Fitzgerald, but Zelda. And her long marriage to him wasn't always a happy one or a peaceful one either. There is no doubt, to me anyway, that they both loved each other, even when they weren't getting along. Despite all the difficulties, they stayed together, even when it would have been better, maybe, for them both not to. A love story of the ages. ( )
  ZelmerWilson | Oct 31, 2019 |
Fowler notes that there is a "Zelda camp" and a "Scott camp" when it come to thinking of the Fitzgerald's. It's a shame than, that having identified this trend, she then falls into it herself. A somewhat entertaining but tame book that is constantly let down by the demonisation of Scott and the victimisation of Zelda. ( )
  Fardo | Oct 15, 2019 |
This book brought to life so many people from such a vibrant point in art/literary history and none more so than Zelda Fitzgerald! It was so heartbreaking and compelling, I felt like I was riding the same wave of emotions as Zelda the whole time. I try not to keep so many books, especially if I know people who would enjoy them as much as me, but this is one I'll be keeping! I would recommend this to any lover of the Jazz Age, Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda or just the idea of her, or anything the Roaring 20s has to provide - especially the afterparty. ( )
  Abigail.Lee | Jul 27, 2019 |
Showing 1-5 of 87 (next | show all)
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Happily, happily foreverafterward - the best we could.
- Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?

—T.S. Eliot
Once again


First words
Prologue: Dear Scott, The Love of the Last Tycoon is a great title for your novel.
Chapter I: Picture a late June morning in 1918, a time when Montgomery wore her prettiest spring dress and finest floral perfume - same as I would wear that evening.
Though I suspect he has someone out there, he writes to me all the time, and always ends his letters, With dearest love... My letters to him are signed, Devotedly... Even now, when we haven’t shared an address in six years, when he’s probably shining his light on some adoring girl who surely thinks she has saved him, we’re both telling it true. This is what we’ve got at the moment, who we are. It’s not nearly what we once had--the good. I mean--but it’s also not what we once had, meaning the bad.
I rested my head against his shoulder and we watched the sun set, just like you might see in the movies. We’d worked hard to create this lovely, new domestic bliss, and before Gatsby’s publication, right up until the book was printed and put into the hands of both the reading and the reviewing public, it looked as if we might actually succeed. Wait: if I leave it at that, it’ll sound like the novel’s disappointing performance is to blame for the disaster we made of our lives, and that’s not really so. Ernest Hemingway is to blame.
Trouble has lots of forms. There’s financial trouble and marital trouble, there’s trouble with friends and trouble with landlords and trouble with liquor and trouble with the law. Every sort of trouble I can think of, we’ve tried it out--become expert at some of it, even, so much so that I’ve come to wonder whether artists in particular seek out hard times the way flowers turn their faces toward the sun.
Scott and I had a row last weekend and haven’t spoken since--but as we are going to Sylvia Beach’s dinner for James Joyce tonight, I’ll once again have to put on my Mrs. F. Scott costume and try to play nice with him and the other children. Whose life is this, anyway? Only when I’m sweating rivers perfecting my plies in the studio do I feel like a whole and real person.
Scott spent the next several days drafting a story he called ‘The Rich Boy,’ then set it aside and returned to his routine of having cocktails with those very same types.
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Picture a late-May morning in 1918, a time when Montgomery wore her prettiest spring dress and finest floral perfume—same as I would wear that evening…

Thus begins the story of beautiful, reckless, seventeen-year-old Zelda Sayre on the day she meets Lieutenant Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald at a country club dance. Fitzgerald isn’t rich or settled; no one knows his people; and he wants, of all things, to be a writer in New York. No matter how wildly in love they may be, Zelda’s father firmly opposes the match. But when Scott finally sells his first novel, This Side of Paradise, Zelda defies her parents to board a train to New York and marry him in the vestry of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Life is a sudden whirl of glamour and excitement: Everyone wants to meet the dashing young author of the scandalous novel—and his beautiful, perhaps even more scandalous wife. Zelda bobs her hair, trades in her provincial finery for daring dresses, and plunges into the endless party that welcomes the darlings of the literary world to New York, then Paris and the French Riviera.

It is the Jazz Age, when everything seems new and possible—except that dazzling success does not always last. Surrounded by a thrilling array of magnificent hosts and mercurial geniuses—including Sara and Gerald Murphy, Gertrude Stein, and the great and terrible Ernest Hemingway—Zelda and Scott find the future both grander and stranger than they could have ever imagined.
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