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3.85 AVERAGE
3.85 AVERAGE
There were two good stories (Bernice Bobs Her Hair, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button) and one really good one, Babylon Revisited - which was really sober compared to the other ones. Babylon Revisited takes places after the market crash of 1929 and, in a way, parallels the crash of the society, glamour and everything Fitzgerald is known for. The rest of the stories were a bit underwhelming, except for The Baby Party, which was fun, but lacked any substance. Atleast this book made me want to read more works by him.
This was my first read by F. Scott Fitzgerald but I didn't know much about his work at this time since I was 11 years old when I first read it. Honestly I forgot all about this short story and only remembered it once I found a copy of this story among my school papers. After rereading this story I realized how I forgot this book after all this time. This was a nice introduction to his work but there wasn't anything too spectacular about it. I did like how the main character (Charlie) admits to having one alcoholic drink a day as that shows how the character has grown from his party days and time in a sanatorium. There were times that Marian (Charlie's sister-in-law) annoyed me tremendously as she was incredibly hostile toward Charlie for spending time in a sanatorium or having had a drinking problem in the past. I'm still not sure how responsible Helen's death was Charlie's fault since she died of heart trouble. How her husband Lincoln, who is such a kind and good man, married her is a mystery to me.
Three stories, the titular one and The Cut Glass Bowl were both decent and enjoyable. The final one was short and I got nothing from it.
A decent read but nothing special.
A decent read but nothing special.
Really this is practically five stars. I loved it. It's my favorite (American) story that I've read so far this summer.
I don't know what it's missing -- really, it's such an immensely straightforward story, that it doesn't actually have a whole lot happening below its surface. I guess that's it. I like the feeling of the unknown, just a little bit, when I read something. The feeling of, how did they get there?
Apparently, the story is truer to life than I realized when I finished it. Fitzgerald was in fact in a situation like this after his most alcoholic years, cleaning up and trying to get his sister-in-law to give him his daughter back.
I really like thinking about the work an author does to turn a true circumstance into solid fiction, which requires so many more things than nonfiction. To make art out of life, much more structure is needed to deliver its message, and timing of the things that happen must be more controlled. It won't work unless you are an extremely skilled storyteller. It seems somehow more structurally impressive to do so in a short piece than in a novel. The plot and people here are so smooth and genuine at the same time.
Though it's written with a light touch, the emotions in this story are brutal. The irony of Charlie's powerlessness defines everything: he's earned back everything he could, but his respect may be gone forever. And he feels that he may deserve this, but who could live like that? Back in Paris, he faces the scene of his disgusting hedonist meltdown, and can barely stand to look. It's a part of him that won't ever leave him, even if he lets it die. If he asks for true forgiveness, what does he do for the rest of his life if the answer's no?
The crux of this story is the waiting and swinging of this yes-or-no answer on the custody question that essentially decides the whole remaining worth of his life. Thinking of it happening, he feels "The door of the world was open again." I almost fell over with that sentence. His daughter is young but getting older, and in six months, she would not be the same. The time in which they can have each other is being lost. They never truly will, if not now. Six months is so short to wait, but so much can be ruined.
I happened to read this on a day that left me a rather bitter disappointment: one that said to wait. Not no, not yes. Three months. Maybe six. I was glad that Charlie was there, and sorry too.
I don't know what it's missing -- really, it's such an immensely straightforward story, that it doesn't actually have a whole lot happening below its surface. I guess that's it. I like the feeling of the unknown, just a little bit, when I read something. The feeling of, how did they get there?
Apparently, the story is truer to life than I realized when I finished it. Fitzgerald was in fact in a situation like this after his most alcoholic years, cleaning up and trying to get his sister-in-law to give him his daughter back.
I really like thinking about the work an author does to turn a true circumstance into solid fiction, which requires so many more things than nonfiction. To make art out of life, much more structure is needed to deliver its message, and timing of the things that happen must be more controlled. It won't work unless you are an extremely skilled storyteller. It seems somehow more structurally impressive to do so in a short piece than in a novel. The plot and people here are so smooth and genuine at the same time.
Though it's written with a light touch, the emotions in this story are brutal. The irony of Charlie's powerlessness defines everything: he's earned back everything he could, but his respect may be gone forever. And he feels that he may deserve this, but who could live like that? Back in Paris, he faces the scene of his disgusting hedonist meltdown, and can barely stand to look. It's a part of him that won't ever leave him, even if he lets it die. If he asks for true forgiveness, what does he do for the rest of his life if the answer's no?
The crux of this story is the waiting and swinging of this yes-or-no answer on the custody question that essentially decides the whole remaining worth of his life. Thinking of it happening, he feels "The door of the world was open again." I almost fell over with that sentence. His daughter is young but getting older, and in six months, she would not be the same. The time in which they can have each other is being lost. They never truly will, if not now. Six months is so short to wait, but so much can be ruined.
I happened to read this on a day that left me a rather bitter disappointment: one that said to wait. Not no, not yes. Three months. Maybe six. I was glad that Charlie was there, and sorry too.
Over the years I've come to realize that my first encounter with "Babylon Revisited" is a crucial reason why I've developed a tendency toward preemptive nostalgia. Even at the moments I'm most blissfully content there's a part of my mind always already mourning the fact any present happiness is destined to quickly slip into the past tense. This line in particular has emblazoned itself into my memory, and still makes me shiver: "I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone." What's to ever guarantee that more good times are ahead?
I actually first read Fitzgerald's celebrated short story during one of the most sustained stretches of happiness I've ever experienced. I was an American student studying in London, my first time away from home for an extended period of time, and I was relishing every minute of it. This story was assigned for a class on expatriate American writers I was taking, and I distinctly remember a startling sensation of imagining myself returning at some point in the future to the large, warmly sunlit sitting room I often and was at that moment reading in, and ruefully recalling how truly wonderful that exact moment was, and how was it possible I didn't manage to recognize it at the time? "Babylon Revisited" haunted the rest of my semester—in a good, productive way, I should note—and, really, ever since.
At his best Fitzgerald composed prose that sparkles like so many diamonds upon the page. But here the crystalline phrasing not only glitters—it lacerates too.
I actually first read Fitzgerald's celebrated short story during one of the most sustained stretches of happiness I've ever experienced. I was an American student studying in London, my first time away from home for an extended period of time, and I was relishing every minute of it. This story was assigned for a class on expatriate American writers I was taking, and I distinctly remember a startling sensation of imagining myself returning at some point in the future to the large, warmly sunlit sitting room I often and was at that moment reading in, and ruefully recalling how truly wonderful that exact moment was, and how was it possible I didn't manage to recognize it at the time? "Babylon Revisited" haunted the rest of my semester—in a good, productive way, I should note—and, really, ever since.
At his best Fitzgerald composed prose that sparkles like so many diamonds upon the page. But here the crystalline phrasing not only glitters—it lacerates too.
It’s kind of funny that I finished this book on my wedding anniversary. I read this book because my husband loves F Scott. And through him, I have learned a lot about this young author
Mediocre short stories at best. Nothing like Fitzgerald's novels.
Some of the short stories were really good (like Babylon Revisited) and others really did not age well.
adventurous
dark
mysterious
reflective
tense
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Selecting my favorite short story out of the ten in this collection:
<i>The Diamond as Big as the Ritz</i>
Fitzgerald first-hand experienced how life is for the ultra-rich. Out that experience, he imagined this brilliant story that probably exaggerates the nauseating opulence and ugliness of such privileged existence. As you walk in the glittering mansions and excessively alluring hallways of these big homes, everything is exciting and disorienting. You can marvel and imagine yourself owning all these luxuries on a daily basis. The pursuit to keep owning more appeals to some primitive sensation in all, probably evolved as part of the almost universal capitalistic societies. It feels comfortable at first. It feels never-ending. However, you have this eerie feeling of the cost of finding yourself so fortunate and relaxed - the metaphorical cost, not the list. There's always a dark underbelly which sooner or later reveals itself, as it does in this story. You see how there is an instinctive notion of self-preservation and selfishness in maintaining the pristine and never-ending supply of pleasures in life. How this addictive habit of growing one's material resources comes at the cost of deprioritizing everything else in comparison, even other human lives. There appears to be a latent sense of fear in losing what one has accumulated that drives this mania of maintaining one's riches no matter what. Very soon the sugar of this sweet life starts sickening. As a foreigner to this extravagant world, you feel panic and want to escape back to the normal world - where there is at least a sane balance between hunger and satisfaction. If you stay long enough in this rich, foreign world, which you could never imagine existed, you will be consumed and subsumed in its system.
<i>The Diamond as Big as the Ritz</i>
Fitzgerald first-hand experienced how life is for the ultra-rich. Out that experience, he imagined this brilliant story that probably exaggerates the nauseating opulence and ugliness of such privileged existence. As you walk in the glittering mansions and excessively alluring hallways of these big homes, everything is exciting and disorienting. You can marvel and imagine yourself owning all these luxuries on a daily basis. The pursuit to keep owning more appeals to some primitive sensation in all, probably evolved as part of the almost universal capitalistic societies. It feels comfortable at first. It feels never-ending. However, you have this eerie feeling of the cost of finding yourself so fortunate and relaxed - the metaphorical cost, not the list. There's always a dark underbelly which sooner or later reveals itself, as it does in this story. You see how there is an instinctive notion of self-preservation and selfishness in maintaining the pristine and never-ending supply of pleasures in life. How this addictive habit of growing one's material resources comes at the cost of deprioritizing everything else in comparison, even other human lives. There appears to be a latent sense of fear in losing what one has accumulated that drives this mania of maintaining one's riches no matter what. Very soon the sugar of this sweet life starts sickening. As a foreigner to this extravagant world, you feel panic and want to escape back to the normal world - where there is at least a sane balance between hunger and satisfaction. If you stay long enough in this rich, foreign world, which you could never imagine existed, you will be consumed and subsumed in its system.