sixty-five: zelda fitzgerald.

fitzgerald on my wrist. eyes shut. june 2012.

She may have been batshit crazy, she may have tried to deter F. Scott Fitzgerald from his work, but at the end of the day he always asked her when it came to a new book: “what kind of a heroine would you like to be?”

That’s love. 

She may have avoided marrying Scott when he was poor and she may have been fucked from the beginning, but during an interview Scott told a reporter: “I married the heroine of my stories.” But what he meant was that he married the heroine of his life.

Whether it be finding a muse or being someone else’s muse, it’s not an easy task. It will end in a fire in a mental hospital and all that will remain are ash-ridden bones and a moment of clarity that was once uttered long ago: “It’s very expressive of myself. I just lump everything in a great heap which I have labelled ‘the past’, and, having thus emptied this deep reservoir that was once myself, I am ready to continue.”

But some reservoirs are too deep to empty, my beloved Zelda.


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