“‘I know myself,’ he cried, ‘but that is all’”.
If I stopped developing as a person at the age of 10, and went into this book with the mindset I once had, this would pry be my favorite novel. Within Amory I saw myself, though more in an abstract ideal way than anything concrete. Which is to say that within him I saw perhaps not my worst, but certainly some of my more infamous traits. He is practically a more grown version of that 10 year old self I mentioned, though perhaps in a whiter and richer way.
But enough about myself, and instead more of the novel. I much preferred this novel to The Beautiful and the Damned, which I read last year. Perhaps for this is more of a coming of age story, and ends on a much kinder note than the other did, this one of hope and potential instead of the other’s cynicism. Of course, Amory is identical in many ways to Anthony Patch, which should not surprise anyone even vaguely familiar with F. Scott Fitzgerald, as all that man could write were self-inserts. This book surprised me with its lack of a doomed, unhappy marriage, the type quite frequent in Fitzgerald’s other works. Perhaps that is because he was younger when he wrote this, and less absorbed by his own misery.
Which is not to say this novel is devoid of misery, in fact it has much. But it’s in a more immature, early life way, the type that you feel sure is close to its end. It’s easier to power through, especially because some of the misery is quite reasonable and unavoidable (see WW1). I don’t know. I think the easiest way to simplify it is to say that The Beautiful and the Damned is much more insufferable than this novel could ever be.
On a final note I want to discuss characters. I actually cared about the characters here, in contrast to BaD where I hated everyone. My favorite, to the shock of nobody, was Tom. I’m running out of room, so I will simply finish by saying Tom, you will always be famous.