We have been talking with friends about a possible trip next year, that would include a few days in Paris. No way of knowing, at this point, if it will happen, but this talk led somewhere.
A few days ago, between books, I absently picked out, from my bookshelf, Hemingway's memoir of his days in Paris, in the 20's. I have read it several times, and am always surprised when I get to the last section, which covers his adventures with Scott Fitzgerald, during the period when Gatsby was just being released (to middling interest).
I have also read that book many times, and picked it up again, a couple of nights ago. Within ten pages, I was again captured, and, a few minutes ago, came once again to the final haunting passage.
It is unquestionably a great book. Not perfect. Every so often, a mystifying word or phrase is tossed in - jarringly odd amid the rest of the narrative.
But, there is the overall sadness of it; the tragedy of the multiple failures; the simple summation of Tom and Daisy as folks who go thru life having their messes cleaned up by others, and, finally, the realization of the ultimate sadness of Fitzgerald's own life.
These things color this Fall afternoon, where the cool late sunshine tries to bring back the warmth of a summer now past. Must pick the remaining tomatoes.
Four days until this election. I fear for this republic.