tender is the night

Some of Fitzgerald’s best lyricism is hidden in this probably-a-little-too-lengthy novel, which makes sense given that its title (from a line of Keats) ensures a kind of glib poetry throughout the story. Interestingly enough, the female characters are wholly admirable while Dick carries the burden of much of the blame; however, Fitzgerald clearly sees some of himself in Dick, and I think that’s why we get such an accurate, heartbreaking portrayal of love, mental illness, loss of youth, and the “emotional bankruptcy” for which the world has come to love his novels. Note to self: read again when fluent in French.

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