@bookdedications

Crack-Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald

In Books, Classics, Novels on March 17, 2010 at 12:00 pm

This note by Edmund Wilson appears in Fitzgerald’s book under the heading  “DEDICATION.”

Scott, your latest fragments I arrange tonight,

Assigning commas, setting accents right,

As once I punctuated, spelled and trimmed

When, passing in a Princeton spring – how dimmed

By this damned quarter-century and more! –

You left your Shadow Laurels at my door.

That was a drama webbed of dreams: the scene

A shimmering beglamored bluish-green

Sailed Paris wineshop; the sad hero one

Who loved applause but had his life alone;

Who fed on drink for weeks; forgot to eat.

“Worked feverishly,” nourished on defeat

A lyric pride, and lent a lyric voice

To all the tongueless knavish tavern boys,

The liquor-ridden, the illiterate;

Got stabbed one midnight by a tavern-mate –

Betrayed, but self-betrayed by stealthy sins –

And faded to the sound of violins.

Tonight, in this dark lone Atlantic gale,

I set in order such another tale,

While tons of wind that take the world for scope

Rock blackened waters where marauders grope

Our blue and bathed0in Massachusetts ocean;

The Cape shakes with the depth-bomb’s dumbed concussion

And guns can interrupt me in these rooms,

Where now I seek to breathe again the fumes

Of iridescent drinking-dens, retrace

The bright hotels, regain the eager pace

You tell of… Scott, the bright hotels turn bleak;

The pace limps or stamps; the wines are weak.

The horns and violins come faint tonight.

A rim of darkness that devours light

Runs like the wall of flame that eats the land;

Blood, brain and labor pour into the sand;

And here, among our comrades of the trade,

Some buzz like husks, some stammer, much afraid,

Some mellowly give tongue and join the drag

Like hounds that bay the bounding anise-bag,

Some swallow darkness and sit hunched and dull,

The stunned beat’s stupor in the monkey-skull.

I climbed, a quarter-century and more

Played out, the college steps, unlatched my door,

And, creature strange to college, found you there:

The pale skin, hard green eyes, and yellow hair —

Intently pinching out before a glass

Some pimples left by parties at the Nass;

Nor did you stop abashed, thus pocked and blotched

But kept on peering while I stood and watched.

Tonight, from days more distant now, we find,

Than holidays in France were, left behind,

Than spring of graduation from the fall

That saw us grubbing below City Hall,

Through storm and darkness, Time’s contrary stream,

There glides amazingly your mirror’s beam —

To bring before me still, glazed mirror-wise,

The glitter of the hard and emerald eyes.

The cornea tough, the aqueous chamber cold,

Those glassy optic bumbs that globe and hold —

They pass their image on to what they mint,

To blue ice or light buds attune their tint,

And leave us, to turn over, iris-fired,

Not the great Ritz-sized diamond you desired

But jewels in a handful, lying loose;

Flawed amethysts; the moonstone’s milky blues;

Chill blues of pale transparent tourmaline;

Opals of shifty yellow, chartruse green,

Wherein a vein vermilion flees and flickers —

Tight phials of the spirit’s light mixed liquors;

Some tinsel zircons, common turquoise; but

Two emeralds, green and lucid, one half-cut,

One cut consummately – both take their place

In Letters’ most expensive Cartier case.

And there I have set them out for final show,

And come to the task’s dead-end, and dread to know

Those eyes struck dark, dissolving in a wrecked

And darkened world, that gleam of intellect

That spilled into the spectrum of tune, taste,

Scent, color, living speech, is gone, is lost;

And we must dwell among the ragged stumps,

With owls digesting mice to dismal lumps

Of skin and gristle, monkeys scared by thunder,

Great buzzards that descend to grab the plunder.

And I, your scraps and sketches sifting yet,

Can never thus revive one sapphire jet,

However close I look, however late,

But only spell and point and punctuate.

by Edmund Wilson, 1942.

– The Crack-Up by F. Scott Fitzgerald

2Y&Y: While working as a literary critic, Edmund Wilson wrote books about Stein, Hemingway and Fitzgerald. He applauded and then quickly discarded Socialism during the Roosevelt era. Read his thoughts about New York writers.

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