ZELDA: THE MADWOMAN IN THE FLAPPER DRESS

My November Column at Bookslut

In their influential work The Madwoman in the Attic, Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar posed a thought-provoking question: “Is a pen a metaphorical penis?” Their answer was a complex yet resounding yes, giving rise to a powerful feminist literary theory. They argued that in patriarchal Western culture, the author is seen as a father figure, with the pen as an instrument of generative power, similar to the penis. This power not only includes the ability to create life but also to claim ownership over one's literary offspring. The pen, they showed, has excluded and silenced half the human race for millennia. Paradoxically, the author gives life to characters while simultaneously depriving them of autonomy.

The book also explored how women, who were increasingly becoming authors in the nineteenth century, coped with the dominant literary paternity. A distinctively female literary tradition emerged, characterized by themes of enclosure and escape, as well as depictions of physical and mental discomfort. Nancy Milford's biography Zelda tells the tragic story of a young woman who was “killed into art” by her husband, the patriarchal culture, and herself. Zelda had great talent and ambition but was unable to find true artistic self-expression, leading to her decline into illness.

Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda's husband, regularly used her persona, experiences, and writings for his own work. Zelda initially accepted this, seeing Scott as the Great Male Writer. However, she later expressed ambivalence when she recognized parts of her diary and letters in his work. When Zelda wrote her own stories and essays, they were often published under Scott's name or jointly. This column continues at www.bookslut.com.

I've resisted reviewing this one ever since I've been on this website.

The reason is that I didn't truly believe I could express just how peculiarly central it has become to my life.

First of all, it's a book that I unearthed in my mother's pile of paperbacks when I was a child. The later pictures of Zelda in it actually scared the living daylights out of me.

Then, when I went to college, it seemed as if every artsy girl I attempted to date had this book on their bookshelves.

Fast forward another ten years, and I manage to land a job in the city where Zelda was born and where she met F. Scott. And lo and behold, not only do I find myself wandering around their old haunts, but they also become a part of my job.

By this point, I'm so familiar with this book that I have to read it from a historical perspective to understand the effect it has had on different generations.

First, there were the women who devoured it in the early 70s as a feminist cautionary tale. Then, later on, both men and women took it up as a sort of primer on how to have one of those all-time great love affairs.

After having studied it now, and having read it alongside the inevitable revisionary heirs like Sally Cline, for example, it would be unjust to single out the flaws.

I won't claim that this book really gives you an in-depth understanding of Zelda, but I truly believe Zelda was a bit of a mystery.

Nevertheless, this is still a landmark book, as is evident from its continued popularity, and it most definitely deserves all the acclaim it receives.

This has to be the most engaging biography I've ever read.

Certainly it has factors in its favor. The Fitzgeralds lived a sensational set of lives, and the fact that they lived so recently means that author Nancy Milford had access to interviews as well as personal letters. Interviews she could conduct herself, with people who knew Zelda (and her husband) in life. This automatically makes them feel more fleshed out as characters.

I mention Scott (F. Scott Fitzgerald) because it's almost as much a biography about him as it is about Zelda. The two of them lived rather co-dependently, drawn together out of egotism, competition and a similar sense of purpose, and then staying as they fed into each other's worst traits. Always easier to have a scapegoat to blame. They were tragic, gaudy characters whom I wouldn't believe in fiction (and perhaps that's part of the reason why Milford's biography spoke to me more than any of their own novels, sans THE GREAT GATSBY). Though it probably also has to do with the different writing styles.

Zelda was vivacious and bold in youth, unabashedly sensual and flirtatious in an age where this sort of accepted (or semi-accepted) behavior in young women was new. So much--maybe too much--of Milford's biography focused on people arguing over whether or not she was beautiful, but that's certainly something she cultivated. It went beyond that, though, to a fierceness of character, portrayed obviously in this cover photo. She was obviously dazzling, and obviously exhausting to those around her. And that's even before her mental illness became apparent and she was in and out of hospitals.

So there's our sympathy for Scott's predicament, though Milford makes sure to point out the areas where he stole material from her diaries and letters, his own egotism and competitiveness, as well as his drinking problem. Small quibble, but I don't know why she didn't just up and out him as an alcoholic more often. Maybe that would be messing with history, and his perception of himself and events.

The biography covered decades and I appreciate how Milford was able to show how the Fitzgeralds changed. For Zelda it was most tragic--schizophrenia messing with her mind. With Scott I found it most interesting in relation to their daughter, Scottie, and his heavy-handed insistence to give her an education that was much different than her mother's. But with Zelda there came to be more that notion of the green-lighted (I had to go there!) past that shaped their later relationship. Even when they were sure they had no future together they were clinging to something, clinging to a past that never truly existed. They were never much of a rosy couple; too much drama. But that's also where their aspirations lived, in the past, and the two of them knew each other intimately in that sphere. It seems clear to me that though they were never a healthy couple, they still genuinely loved one another.

Though it is a shame that Zelda's aspirations never went fully realized. Scott struggled, but he certainly found fame, both within his life and especially after. She was his muse--a raw source of energy that he pilfered for his books--but could she have written (or painted or danced) well enough on her own? Or was her life her biggest artistic statement?

A fascinating look at complex human beings that leap off the page. Thanks to Lindsey on BookTube for recommending this to me, hee; it certainly augmented my recent reading of the Fitzgerald novels!

This is an absolutely wonderful and extremely in-depth biography.

Given that this was Ms. Milford's dissertation, it is understandable that there are certain parts that may come across as a bit academic.

However, despite these minor academic nuances, the overall work is truly well worth the time and effort invested in reading it.

The author has delved deep into the subject matter, presenting a comprehensive and detailed account that offers valuable insights.

It is not just a simple retelling of events but a thoughtful exploration that engages the reader on multiple levels.

Whether you are a scholar interested in the specific topic or simply someone with a general curiosity, this biography has something to offer.

It is a testament to Ms. Milford's research skills and her ability to present complex ideas in an accessible manner.

So, if you are looking for a captivating and informative read, this biography should definitely be on your list.

Someone observes at the start of this book that the collection of Zelda Fitzgerald's writings amounts to a "distinctly human document." However, this person claims they can't make sense of what it all means—one can only guess their gender, ha. But the Fitzgeralds were both—this book also has a lot about Scott—very "human" people, if we consider the general meaning of the term. They weren't perfect, had issues with indulgence and a marital rivalry, accumulated a lot of debt, and threw too many late-night parties. This was all enjoyable in the early days of the Roaring Twenties, but by the end, it had a rather harmful effect on both of them and their marriage.

This book was published in 1970, and it might have been out of place to have a full discussion about gender roles. Perhaps a biography isn't the right place for such talk, but this book is filled with the deep-rooted effects of living in a society where we are expected to conform to them. The story of the Fitzgeralds' marriage was symbiotic, they complemented each other playfully well, throwing the best and most outrageous parties. Until Zelda's mental health began to deteriorate—mostly due to their extravagant lifestyle and excessive partying—and Scott remained a loyal husband to her, as he was sometimes the only one who could still reach her, until her tragic end.

Zelda started her life as a classic Southern Belle. It's clear that being the youngest in the Sayre family allowed her to get away with mischief, but otherwise, she was occupied with typical girly things, especially finding a husband. But Zelda Sayre was never meant to be just a housewife or a mother. She was too unpredictable, independent, whimsical, and self-deprecatingly dangerous. Motherhood should have been unacceptable to her! But she loved Scott, and they were young, rich, and married. Society said that people like them should have babies, so they had Scottie. And upon her birth, something changed. Mr. Fitzgerald, present at Scottie's birth, took some words right out of Zelda's mouth for his new book: "I hope she's a fool. A beautiful little fool." And that's how The Great Gatsby got its best line. The author himself didn't even write it but stole it from his wife as she gave birth to their only child. For me, this scene marked the beginning of Zelda's realization that the gendered life path she was starting would be uncomfortable for her.

The pain of watching Scott repeatedly take her words and use them in his own work, sometimes unchanged, was too much for a woman excluded from the publishing industry (and later from society as a whole). When Zelda did manage to get published, it was always in relation to her already famous husband—sometimes they would even publish her essays under Scott's name—and it was usually followed by some sort of criticism of her as a woman: that her writing was too excessive, too flowery, too rambling, too metaphorical, too focused on imagery. Interestingly, these are the qualities I liked when reading her letters compared to Scott's, but I'm also a woman, and perhaps it's in my nature to prefer a flowery and metaphorical style, as opposed to the stiff, direct language favored by Scott and Ernest Hemingway at the time.

When it became clear that the general public didn't accept her talents as an author, she turned to dance, but of course, everyone told her she was bad at it because she had started too late—one person remembers her long, ugly, sinewy legs. When she became a painter, she sold quite a bit of work, but was always gossiped about behind her back—one woman who bought a painting of hers of a troupe of circus acrobats said she wanted the painting but wouldn't have its harshness on display in her house!

Later, in the grip of her illness, the only things known to truly trigger Zelda's schizophrenic episodes were suggestions of artistic comparison with Scott. But it's painfully ironic that the only person who seemed to recognize Zelda's original artistry in writing was Scott. And although he stayed by her side through everything, one wonders if the motivation wasn't at least partly artistically parasitic (Scott used many of Zelda's letters from the mental hospital in his book Tender is the Night). It's even more ironic that Scott often called Zelda's work derivative, because she also liked to write about characters with poor mental health and used similar profiles to the characters in Scott's work—which Scott often admitted were based on Zelda and himself. Zelda, on the other hand, never mentions (in the book anyway) how she feels about Scott's use of her letters, sayings, writings, anything. And she never used his words in her own writing the way Scott used hers.

The sexism embedded in the hatred directed at Zelda and her many attempts to become an artist says a lot about how our idea of an artist is, at its very beginning and core, inherently masculine. This doesn't mean Zelda is blameless for the pain she caused those around her, but rather it helps explain the many wounds she herself suffered (and they say hurt people hurt people). The times favored only one type of woman—Scott called them "idlers"—and Zelda realized, too late as a product of her gendered society, that she wanted to be anything but an idle woman. She was dissatisfied with being idle, and society was dissatisfied with her being busy, so everything ended in disaster (literally).

All of this is full of hypocrisy, misogyny, and control issues. In the last few years before Scott died—men always seem to die first, don't they?—the Fitzgeralds' marriage was hopelessly broken, and Zelda was essentially held prisoner against her will by Dr. Carroll (ha), an almost cult-like psychiatrist, in a mental institution in Asheville while Scott worked in Hollywood. When Scott died, they hadn't seen each other in over a year, although they wrote every week. The letters during this time mainly consisted of Zelda's pleas for release from the hospital, which were ignored by Scott and Dr. Carroll only a few months before Scott's death, when it finally became clear that they could no longer afford the expensive treatment. Is this what we do to women who decide they want to pay their own way and make their own money through art? All in the margins during these parts, I have written "trapped! trapped! trapped!"

Just for the record, many people with schizophrenia live on the "outside." And while Zelda's mind was failing, there was no reason she couldn't have spent most of her time at home with her mother. In the end, though, the routine she was exposed to and the cult-like, almost religious methods Dr. Carroll used warped Zelda's mind. And curiously, upon her release FOUR YEARS later, we see her plead to return to the very place that had taken away all her freedom in the first place! The whole thing reeks of Stockholm Syndrome.

The author almost discusses the implications of gender in all of this when—after a collection of letters addressed to their daughter where Scott not-so-subtly insults Zelda and her writing—she says "In this Scott revealed a penchant for... simultaneously undertaking to stimulate and direct the lives of his daughter, his wife, and his mistress.... it was as if by educating HIS WOMEN [emphasis mine] he formed a buffer against his personal demons." But the conversation stops there.

All in all, this poor woman deserved better. I'm reminded of the Rebecca Solnit quip: "It's not you, it's the patriarchy." I feel for you, Zelda, I really do. I promise I'll read Save Me the Waltz one day.

The biography of Zelda Fitzgerald, the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, offers a fascinating glimpse into the lives of a literary couple during the 1920s and 1930s.

It presents a detailed account of their relationship, which was both passionate and tumultuous. The book delves into their personal and professional lives, showing how they influenced each other.

However, at times, the narrative becomes bogged down with the exchange of letters between the couple. While these letters provide valuable insights, Zelda's letters can be difficult to follow at times.

Additionally, there were moments when it seemed as if Scott became the lead character, overshadowing Zelda's story.

Zelda led a tragic life, in part due to her illness. Her struggles with mental health added another layer of complexity to her relationship with Scott.

Overall, while the book had its interesting aspects, it also had its flaws. It could have been more balanced in its portrayal of both Zelda and Scott, and the letter exchanges could have been presented in a more engaging way.

“Anything that can be done in moderation is better left undone” is the sentence with which this biography begins and which perfectly defines the rhythm of life of its protagonist.

Each time my curiosity to know the life of various personalities grows, so as soon as I saw this biography about Zelda Fitzgerald, I got it

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, often referred to as "the first American flapper," had a life filled with both glamour and tragedy. Her marriage to F. Scott Fitzgerald was complex, and her struggle with mental illness overshadowed her own artistic aspirations.

Popular culture has portrayed Zelda as a glamorous symbol of the Jazz Age, but the reality was far different. The author's research, conducted nearly 50 years ago, presents a more complete and heartbreaking picture of her life and career.

Most histories of the Fitzgeralds relegate Zelda to a secondary role, either as Scott's muse or as an unstable partner. However, this book focuses on their marriage from her perspective, giving voice to a viewpoint that has long been ignored.

The early days of their courtship and marriage were carefree, but Zelda's madness and Scott's alcoholism soon took their toll. Her illness became debilitating in her early 30s, and she spent nearly two decades in and out of mental institutions. The author covers her descent with sympathy and fairness, despite the incoherence of the events.

This book also explores the ways in which Zelda influenced Scott's work. His fiction was often inspired by their personal lives, and Zelda resented his use of her letters and diaries without permission. To fully understand Fitzgerald's stories, it is essential to understand Zelda's involvement. Her story cannot be ignored any longer.

Zelda offers a detailed account of the captivating life of Zelda Sayre. She was a young Southern woman who became the embodiment of the jazz age, a flapper, a muse, and the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of the greatest American writers in history.

Nancy Milford is an outstanding author who clearly dedicated thousands of hours and several years to researching and interviewing those associated with Zelda and Scott, their daughter Scottie, and their family. This is evident in her writing, as the Jazz age comes alive once again.

The biography not only chronicles Zelda's life but also the lives of those who shared it, especially her famous husband Scott and the challenges of their marriage.

Milford thoughtfully documents Zelda's golden youth and remarkable beauty, her meeting with Scott, their courtship, and his increasing significance in her life. Their eventual marriage, along with their joys, jealousies, drunkenness, and excesses, is also explored. Scott's initial success as a writer and its impact on them as a couple, as well as Zelda's crucial role as a muse, are particularly clear. However, when Zelda desires her own artistic identity, Scott resists being overshadowed by his wife. Zelda's search for a personal role as an artist and her gradual descent into madness, along with their financial difficulties, are contrasted against the backdrop of the glamorous and ever-changing American or European cityscapes. This highlights her longing to feel worthy and the deepening depression that follows when she fails.

This biography is a captivating, exquisitely written, and sensitive portrayal that is truly worth reading.

Scott said somewhere (quoted in Deleuze): "Perhaps fifty percent of our friends and relations will tell you in good faith that it was my drinking that drove Zelda mad, and the other half would assure you that it was her madness that drove me to drink. Neither of these judgements means much of anything. These two groups of friends and relations would be unanimous in saying that each of us would have been much better off without the other. The irony is that we have never been more in love with each other in all our lives. She loves the alcohol on my lips. I cherish her most extravagant hallucinations. In the end, nothing really had much importance. We destroyed ourselves. But in all honesty, I never thought we destroyed each other."

The big secret is that Zelda was a better writer than Scott. More raw, yes. But more powerful for that rawness. What I like about Deleuze and, more so, about Laing, my new friend, is the assurance I get from them that my own fantasies are valid as a mode of experience. They are not other-than-experience. They are experience. And Zelda's led to some amazing paragraphs. Like this one, so perfect.

"Goofy, my darling, hasn't it been a lovely day? I woke up this morning and the sun was lying like a birthday parcel on my table so I opened it up and so many happy things went fluttering into the air: love to Doo-do and the remembered feel of our skins cool against each other in other mornings like a school mistress. And you phoned and said I had written something that pleased you and I don't believe I've ever been so heavy with happiness... Darling - I love these velvet nights. I've never been able to decide whether the night was a bitter enemie or a grand patron - or whether I love you most in the eternal classic half-lights where it blends with day or in the full religious fanfare of midnight or perhaps in the lux of noon - Anyway, I love you most and you phoned me just because you phoned me tonight - I walked on those telephone wires for two hours after holding your love like a parasol to balance me."

That's on page 178 in Nancy Milford's book - not dated - among the things of hers Scott would incorporate into Nicole's letters in Tender is the Night. Written from captivity, astonishingly vivid and that last line so moving and brilliant. It shows the depth of Zelda's emotions and her unique way of expressing them. Her writing is a window into her soul, filled with love, longing, and a touch of madness. It makes us realize that behind the glamorous facade of the Fitzgeralds' lives, there was a complex and tortured relationship. Zelda's words have the power to touch our hearts and make us question our own understanding of love and madness.

The life of Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald is a complex and fascinating one. She was the epitome of the Jazz age, the original flapper. We envision her zipping through Paris with her charming husband, Scott, hobnobbing with the literary elite. But the reality was much more complicated.

Before reading this, I knew Zelda had serious mental and nervous conditions and was institutionalized. However, I didn't realize how much of her life was spent in that state, how little in the carefree years of youth, and how much time she spent in exile from her husband. Their story is not a charming one but a troubled one. Scott was an alcoholic, and Zelda was a schizophrenic, yet both were romantics.

In the beginning, I didn't like Scott. I thought his treatment of Zelda contributed to her lack of center. He used her letters in his novels, portrayed her mercilessly, and was afraid and contemptuous of her attempts to become a writer. But by the end, I felt for him. His egoism and self-confidence had mostly vanished, and he had mined his past of all its resources. He never deserted Zelda, paid for her treatments, wrote to her weekly, and raised their child alone.

I never felt as if I truly knew Zelda. Maybe she was a person who couldn't be known. There was just too much about her that was not the norm, which made her both fascinating and sad. She was a misplaced Southern girl, and I could relate to that. She felt herself falling apart and lost all control of her life. For a free-spirited and artistic person like her, being categorized and forced to be 'normal' must have been extremely painful.
They were two very sad people, but at least they had the song at one time. Some people never do.

I can't write. I've tried all afternoon—and I just twist the pencil round and round…

When you can't write you sit on the bed and look so wow-begone like a person who's got to a store and can't remember what they wanted to buy—

Zelda Fitzgerald

Never was a more true statement about writing ever spoken. As my detective series is set in 1923, I continue to research the epoch. At some point, my detective would have to run into Scott and Zelda at a party, and I wanted to capture the moment as accurately as possible. The first third of the text was helpful. I have plenty to make my scene accurate.

After the text left the 1920s, the life of Scott and Zelda went from the Kardashians to the cuckoo’s nest. They both had plenty of mental issues and substance abuse to ruin any life. It is an interesting read. But let me tell you, the ungodly block text was difficult to wade through. As interesting as their bio is, the reading is a slog. And besides page after page of block text, the quotes took up even more room with smaller text.

It comes to a point where you have to wonder if I need all this information about their lives. I think the answer is yes, but the reading is slow. What you will learn is that Scott was a terrible husband who was emotionally abusive at best to his wife, and he even stole her writing. It went beyond plagiarizing her work. Likely born in a different time, Zelda’s mental breakdowns might have received better treatment.

As a literature major and author, this will add to my research. But outside of those really interested in the couple, the block text is intimidating, no matter how well put together the information is. After I gained the information I needed for my writing, I likely wouldn’t have finished if not for my habit of finishing books.