Z: A Novel Of Zelda Fitzgerald, Therese Anne Fowler
A thought grabbed him and he paused and began to search his pockets, coming up with a pencil. “Hold on.” He laid the paper on the table and jotted something on it. Then he read, “‘The smart literary son kills his own father.’ What do you think?”
“Kinda Greek, isn’t it?”
“The cradle of literature, dearest girl. All writers draw from that well–and how’s that for mixing my metaphors?” He sat down next to me and said, “Give me a hero, and I will tell you a tragedy.”
I started to reply when Scott added, “Wait–Give me a hero… Give me a hero and I’ll tell you… no… I’ll show you…”
He reached for the pencil and wrote in the paper’s margin while I waited. It was so funny to see him transferring thoughts to words on paper as if he was taking dictation from those gods he mentioned.
“Here, I think I’ve got it: ‘Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.‘ That’s good. Don’t know where I’ll use it, but it’s good.”
“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”
Scott thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Who can say?”
Part II, Chapter 11
I don’t know how I feel about this book just yet. I get really excited, and then I get angry–at the characters, at the author, at myself. It’s a little like watching Midnight in Paris, but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to unravel to be just bad fan fiction.
But I enjoyed this little moment.