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F. Scott Fitzgerald was a key figure in the history of the Roaring Twenties. It was Fitzgerald, or “Scott,” as he was known to by his friends, who coined the term “Jazz Age” to describe the period. His best known novel, The Great Gatsby, first published in 1925, is a must read for anyone interested in America during the 1920s.
I have read The Great Gatsby several times and seen both the 1972 film version starring Robert Redford as Gatsby and the 2013 film version starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The former is a classic that never disappoints, no matter how often viewed. The latter is a paltry attempt to update a classic. One would think that after many attempts Hollywood would learn that a remake seldom meets, much less exceeds the standard set by the original.
I am reading a number of books on the Roaring Twenties in preparation for an upper level American history class I will teach during the spring semester. In order to get a “feel” for the era, I spent hours watching videos and listening to music from the twenties available on YouTube. I decided to read some of the classic literature of the period, including a 1951 reprint of the original 1920 edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise.
This Side of Paradise is Fitzgerald’s first novel. It is a coming-of-age story based on his early life. He began writing it in 1917 shortly after accepting a commission as a second lieutenant in the army. Joining the army was a ruse to divert attention from the fact that he was flunking out of Princeton University. The finished manuscript, four chapters in length and titled “The Romantic Egotist,” was rejected by Charles Scribner’s Sons in 1918, but with the suggestion that he rewrite and resubmit it.
Scott undertook a frantic rewriting of “The Romantic Egotist” in 1919. He was in love with a beautiful Southern belle, Zelda Sayre, member of a prominent Montgomery, Alabama family with deep roots in the Old South. He was sure he would soon be a rich and famous author; he only had to convince her. Only then could he win the hand of the fair Zelda. She was not the sort of girl likely to marry a man with great dreams only.
On September 3, Scott fired off the typed manuscript to Max Perkins at Scribner’s and returned to his mundane job roofing freight cars at Northern Pacific Railroad. This Side of Paradise was published on March 26, 1920. The first printing of 3,000 copies sold out in just three days. Eleven additional printings followed during 1920 and 1921 for a total of just under 50,000 copies. It was a phenomenal success.
Scott telegraphed Zelda to join him in New York. On April 3, 1920, barely a week after the publication of This Side of Paradise, Scott and Zelda were married in New York’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral, following which they set up housekeeping in an apartment on West 59th Street.
Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald became the poster couple of the 1920s. The romantic image we have of the Roaring Twenties as an era when life was one never-ending party, a dizzying swirl of jazz, flappers, bootleg booze, and gangsters is a creation of F. Scott Fitzgerald. In his fiction and the lifestyle he and Zelda lived, he created and gave life to the theme of a “Lost Generation” searching hopelessly for meaning in an existential world created by the horrors of the Great War.
The post-World War I era was a period of spiritual emptiness. Western Civilization was in its “golden age” during the decade and a half before an assassin’s bullet struck down the heir to the Austrian throne on June 28, 1914 in the picturesque Serbian town of Sarajevo. In the four years that followed, the glamorous fairytale world portrayed in the popular BBC television soap opera, Downton Abbey, was shattered by images of a troglodyte world of muddy, rat and lice infested trenches filled with frightened and hopeless young men waiting for the command to “go over the top” into the face of rapid-firing machine guns and near certain death.
Those who survived the “war to end all wars” could not forget the stench of rotting bodies scattered about “no man’s land,” some hanging silently on rolls of barbed wire, a smorgasbord for overweight rats. They couldn’t rationalize it. They couldn’t believe, as did many, that it was possible to go “back to normalcy,” that is, “Ye Good ol’ Days.” They knew that what was lost could never be restored. Unlike Scarlett O’Hara in that closing scene from the movie, Gone with the Wind, they knew there was no going back to Tara Plantation. They sensed that at least for them, there was no future.
In their novels and poems T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, John Dos Passos, Hart Crane, and later Ernest Hemingway portrayed a postwar world that was a material and spiritual “waste land.” Fitzgerald not only depicted it in his short stories and novels, especially This Side of Paradise and The Great Gatsby, he and Zelda lived it in full public view, like stars in a reality television show. “Sometimes,” Scott once commented, “I don’t know whether Zelda and I are real or whether we are characters in one of my novels.”
Can one find anywhere in the literature of the 1920s a better description of the lost generation than these closing lines from This Side of Paradise?
Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light – and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a reverie of long days and nights, destined finally to go out into the dirty grey turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all God’s dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken…”
Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself – art, politics, religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free from all hysteria – he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow, rebel, sleep deep through many nights…
There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth – yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But—oh, Rosalind! Roaslind! . . .
“It’s all a poor substitute at best,” he said sadly.
And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed…
“He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
“’I know myself,” he cried, “but that is all.’”
The ordinary American knew nothing of the new world inhabited by the so-called Lost Generation. They did not read the literary works of Fitzgerald, Dos Passos, Eliot, Hemingway, and a host of others that are covered in American literature classes today. Their names and the titles of their novels are known to a select group of educated person today, either because they have seen a movie based upon one of the novels, or, perhaps much less likely, actually read one or more.
A cursory glance at the lists of bestselling novels in the United States during each year of the 1920s reveals that not one of the authors commonly included in a list of the lost generation is included. That’s right, not even F. Scott Fitzgerald. The popular authors of the twenties included Gene Stratton-Porter, Harold Bell Wright, and especially Zane Grey.
Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise sold approximately fifty thousand copies in 1920, while Harold Bell Wright’s The Re-Creation of Brian Kent, also published in 1920, sold close to a million copies. Wright was the first American author to sell a million copies of a single novel, and the first to become a millionaire from writing fiction. Five of his novels each had sales equal to one percent of America’s population at the time.
To illustrate further how different were the reading habits of the literate masses during the 1920s from those who read the works of the lost generation writers, I need only mention that the Tarzan novels by Edgar Rice Burroughs sold more copies than those of Stratton-Porter, Wright, and Grey combined. Burroughs’ Tarzan adventures and other bestselling fiction were not considered serious enough to be included in the Publishers Weekly’s list of bestselling novels.
Was the decade of the 1920s really what is portrayed in the fiction written by Fitzgerald and his compatriots, or is the “jazz age” merely a bit of a self-appointed intellectual elite’s nostalgia for a mythical past no more connected to reality than the antebellum South found in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind?
Odd, isn’t it?
It was on this day in 1839 that Louis Jacques Mandé Daguerre (1787-1851), a French artist and photographer, took the first picture of the moon. Daguerre took the photo using a process he developed that became known as daguerreotypy. The image, known as a daguerreotype, “was produced on a silver plate sensitized to iodine and developed in mercury vapor.”
Daguerre is also credited with taking the first photograph, a daguerreotype, of a person. Two men, a bootblack polishing another man’s shoes, are seen in the lower left-hand corner of a photograph of the Boulevard du Crime in Paris taken by Daguerre in 1838. The appearance of the two men in the photo was no doubt by chance.
Today we remember Tex Ritter (b. 1905), who went on to Cowboy Heaven on this
day in 1974. Ritter began his career in 1928 singing cowboy songs on the radio. He starred in a number of B-western movies during the thirties and forties, but it is perhaps as a cowboy and country singer that he is best remembered. His recordings of “Rye Whiskey,” “Blood on the Saddle,” “Green Grow the Lilacs,” “Boll Weevil.” “Hillbilly Heaven,” and “High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darlin)” are all classics. The last won an Oscar in 1953 for “Best Song.” [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzGtvnjtGtM] Tex Ritter died of a heart attack on January 2, 1974.
Today is the birthday of Josef Stalin (1878-1953) who said, “Death is the solution to all problems. No man – no problem.”
Until next time, be good to all God’s creation and always walk under the mercy.
Today is the first day of AD 2015, or “In the year of our Lord, 2015.” The “January 1” as the first day of the year was a gift of the Roman ruler Julius Caesar, who introduced the Julian calendar in 46 BC. The “AD” was the creation of the 6th-century monk Dionysius Exiguus. Since no one knows, or can ever know, the “first day,” it was necessary to have some common reference point from which to calculate time. From the perspective of the “Age of Faith,” the Middle Ages in Western history, what better choice was there than the traditional birth year of Jesus Christ?
Among the many interesting historical events that occurred on January 1, one often forgotten piece of historical trivia is the inaugural flight of the St. Petersburg-Tampa Airboat Line, the first commercial airline. It began operating regularly scheduled flights between St. Petersburg and Tampa, Florida, a distance of 23 miles, on January 1, 1914. The new air service shortened the travel time between the 2 cities from 12 hours by train to a brief 22 minutes by air. The price of a one-way ticket was $5.
Today’s passenger might question the comfort aboard the Benoist Model 14 aircraft. The Benoist 14 was a sea plane that normally flew only 5 feet above the water. Passengers sat on a wooden seat enjoying a cool breeze mixed with ocean spray.
Among notable deaths on this date in history, I must make mention of Hank Williams (1923-1953), one of the best known country-western singers and author of many of the best remembered country-western songs. Williams died on January 1, 1953 in the back seat of his Cadillac somewhere between Bristol, Virginia and Oak Hill, West Virginia while in route to Canton, Ohio, where he was scheduled to perform on New Year’s Day at the Windsor Theater.
Among the notable births on this day in history is that of J. D. Salinger (1919-2010), one of the most influential American authors of the 20th century. Salinger is best remembered for his “sort of” autobiographical [Salinger] novel, CATCHER IN THE RYE, published in 1951. The New York Times hailed it as “an unusually brilliant first novel.” Others damned it. It was banned from American schools as “unfit for children to read.” One irate parent “counted 237 appearances of the word ‘goddam’ in the novel, along with 58 of ‘bastard’, 31 of ‘Chrissake’ and six of ‘fuck’”. The last has replaced “damn” as a common expression of frustration among today’s youth.
I close with a hearty New Year’s greeting and wish that this next year will be one of the good ones.
Until next time, be good to all God’s creation and always walk under the mercy.
 C.V. Glines, “St. Petersburg-Tampa Airboat Line: World’s First Scheduled Airline Using Winged Aircraft,” originally published in the May 1997 issue of AVIATION HISTORY. See more at: http://www.historynet.com/st-petersburgtampa-airboat-line-worlds-first-scheduled-airline-using-winged-aircraft.htm#sthash.tMG5wJQ7.dpuf – See more at: http://www.historynet.com/st-petersburgtampa-airboat-line-worlds-first-scheduled-airline-using-winged-aircraft.htm#sthash.tMG5wJQ7.dpuf
 THE VIRGINIA QUARTERLY REVIEW, Spring 2002.
Sadhus, or holy men, are as Indian as curry. They are part of what gives charm, or an aura mystery, to the subcontinent of India. We sometimes think of them as dirty, clothed in rags, their faces covered in paints of various colors, perhaps demon possessed, smelly, long-haired men wondering about begging for food, or sitting in lotus position in a trance for hours, days, perhaps even years. From time to time they are known to utter words of wisdom, or so they sound to those not accustomed to thinking deeply.
I suppose the Indian holy men are in some way or other unique among the genre, but India does not have a monopoly on religious mystics. They are to be found around the world, among all cultures, in every religion. Yes, they are to be found even within Christianity. The anchoritic monks who populated the Egyptian deserts during the early centuries of Christianity come quickly to mind. Like the Indian sadhus, the anchorites abstained from bathing, clothed themselves in rags, and lived as hermits, all in an effort to earn special favor with God by mortifying the flesh.
WISDOM OF THE SADHU: TEACHINGS OF SUNDAR SINGH, compiled and edited by Kim Comer (Plough Publishing House, 2000) gives us some insight into the life and teachings of Sundar Singh, and Indian sadhu who is considered to have been a Christian mystic. The book is a collection of parables, aphorisms, and other fragments from the teachings of Sundar Singh.
Sundar Singh was a mystic, perhaps even a Christian mystic. But was he a Christian? Of that I am not wholly convinced. In its review of WISDOM OF THE SADHU: TEACHINGS OF SUNDAR SINGH, the Library Journal refers to Sundar Singh as one “who found his way to a kind of Christianity based on his own mystical experience of Jesus.” I am not sure how to understand that conclusion, but I cannot agree with the comment that Sundar Singh’s mystical faith as revealed in this collection from his teachings is somehow “a deeply authentic Christianity.” I do agree with the conclusion that the book should be of interest to “spiritual seekers, Christian and non-Christian alike.”
I enjoy reading books, even novels, written by individuals who are wrestling with the question of how to find meaning and purpose in life, if there is any. That is what drew me to WISDOM OF THE SADHU. It is also what drew me to Thomas á Kempis’ THE IMITATION OF CHRIST and other similar books. Wisdom of the Sadhu is a good read. The sampling of Sundar Singh’s teaching is very interesting, and the writing style is music to the ears.
I love books. They are to be enjoyed for their own sake, not just for the pleasure they give to the reader. Plough Publishing is to be commended for publishing a book that is a pleasure to hold as well as read. The quality of the paper, the print, even the cover all communicate to the reader that Wisdom of the Sadhu is a book to be enjoyed, not just read.
It was not a good night. An aching lower back and right hip, sleep apnea, a late night slice of pepperoni pizza followed by a dish of organic vanilla bean ice cream with pure maple syrup poured over it, topped off with real whipped cream, and a guilty conscience for all of the above fulfilled the promise of a restless night.
My “slumber” was disturbed, as usual, by the repeated beeping of my digital alarm clock with its blinking red numbers that matched the blood veins in my tired eyes announcing it was 4:30 a.m., time to rise, shine, and head for the local Baptist Healthplex to perform my daily ritual aimed at delaying my admission to paradise by extending my time in purgatory.
This morning was different. Instead of grabbing a bottle of pure spring water on my way out the door, I chose to brew a cup of extra strong coffee on my way to my laptop computer, where I would waste an indeterminate amount of time feeding my brain cells, grey like the remaining hair that circles the bald top of my head, allowing only desirable sounds to enter through the two holes, artistically placed, one on each side.
Ignoring the news and thereby staving off the usual daily dose of depression until later, I directed my attention to the veritable feast of internet blogs waiting to be devoured, each one filled with opinions and insights as valuable as my own.
My dream of someday escaping reality by time travel was shattered when I read “Why time travel will remain a sci-fi fantasy.” “Scientists have proved that a single photon obeys Einstein’s theory that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light and that time travel is therefore impossible” (1).
With that avenue of escape blocked, I turned to Leslea Newman’s memoir of being a student of Allen Ginsberg during the summer of 1979 at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. Prior to that summer her image of “Ginzy” was a picture of the great poet “naked with love beads draped around his neck.” What she encountered after knocking on his door, was a bearded old gentleman “in gray baggy pants, white cotton dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and striped maroon tie.” Was she shocked, disillusioned, or disappointed? She does not say, but she later found out that Ginsberg was once told by his guru that if he wanted to be taken seriously as a poet, he would have to wear a suit. And so he did for the rest of his life. (2)
There is good news for the new mother enjoying her cup of coffee while breastfeeding her newborn infant. According to the blog, “Science of Mom,” the latte she is sharing with her newborn is far more milk than coffee. In fact, the infant’s intake of caffeine is less than 10% of the mother’s. So, mothers go ahead and enjoy that cup of coffee. (3)
While on the subject of fresh, organic, booby milk for newborns, “OneGoodDad” posted a picture of three children eating bowls of Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese with their heads covered with blankets. Why? In order that they could relive the early days when their mother would take them out to lunch in public. That blog received numerous comments.
One reader recalled when 37 years earlier while shopping in Gimbels Department Store, “I conveniently sat down in an easy chair in the furniture department and proceeded to nurse my son.” When confronted by another, more sophisticated lady who informed her that the ladies room was a more appropriate venue, she replied that her son was not going to eat in les toilettes des dames.
One reader, “Anna,” noted that “some of the best supporters of breast feeding women are the men who love them.” That should come as no surprise. As any happily married woman can testify, boys never get over the pleasure of well-formed boob. (4)
Well, it’s time to stop wasting time reading blogs. There are important things to be done before the curtain falls on another exciting day in the life of yours truly. But first I need to check my Facebook page, and I want to see if I can find on YouTube the song I heard last night on PBS’s program, Independent Lens. Then there’s Twitter, email, etc., etc., etc.
Have a good day, and remember to be good to all God’s creation and always walk under the mercy.
I recently read this blog essay and found it very interesting and thought provoking. Hence, I want to pass it along to my readers.
I’ll admit first that I haven’t watched the Bill Nye/Ken Ham debate, whose hype induced me to write this essay, and I probably won’t. I have also invested very little of the past five or six years into investigating the specifics of the creationism controversy, which I am aware still smolders in Evangelical circles.
Some autobiographical information may account for my present general apathy. Defending young earth creationism (YEC) was a major church-culture thing when I was a kid, and the typical centerpiece of apologetics ministry. I traveled to an Answers in Genesis conference with a church group when I was about eleven, and met Ken Ham there. Ham also taught adult Sunday School once in my little Baptist church. (My father, who has no particular leaning on YEC, personally found him evasive.)
My parents did their best to supply me with apologetics materials as my intellect budded. Some, for…
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