Oh, we'll have a talk tonight or perhaps tomorrow night. I want to tell you about your heart - you've probably been neglecting your heart - and you don't know.

He felt a nervous excitement that might have been the very throb of its slow heart. It was a stream where he was to throw a stone whose faint ripple would be vanishing almost as it left his hand. As yet he had given nothing, he had taken nothing.

I’m a cynical idealist.

Each life unfulfilled, you see, it hangs still, patchy and scrappy; we have not sighed deep, laughed free, starved, feasted, despaired - been happy.

And beware of trying to classify people too definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact with the world.

No - you’re wrong again, how can a person of your self-reputed brains be so constantly wrong about me? I’m the opposite of everything spring ever stood for. It’s unfortunate, if I happen to look like what pleases some sloppy old Greek sculpture, but I assure you that if it weren’t for my face, I’d be a quiet nun in the convent.

I find the only answer to this bitter age - all the world tumbled about our ears, and the closest parallel ages back in that hopeless resignation.

There is no more dangerous gift to posterity than a few cleverly turned platitudes.

Women she detested. They represented qualities that she felt and despised in herself - incipient meanness, conceit, cowardice, and petty dishonesty.

No, I'm romantic - a sentimental person thinks things will last - a romantic person hopes against hope that they won't. Sentiment is emotional.

Beauty and love pass, I know.... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.

Existence had settled back to an ambitionless normality.

But the truth is that sex is right in the middle of our purest abstractions, so close that it obscures vision.

To begin with, he was still afraid - not physically afraid any more, but afraid of people and prejudice and misery and monotony.

He was his own best example - sitting in the rain, a human creature of sex and pride, foiled by chance and his own temperament of the balm of love and children, preserved to help in building up the living consciousness of the race.

It was a day easily associated with those abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out in mocking laughter by the light of the moon.

They always believe that 'things are in a bad way now, but they haven't any faith in these idealists.

He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow he could find nothing hopeless in having lived.

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! Rosalind!..

Of all the writings by writers in their early 20s that I have read (and written myself), this book stands out as being quite different from most. It's like it's down the street and around the corner, in a league of its own.

I truly wish I had come across the concept of the Romantic Egotist before I penned a book titled Incidents of Egotourism in the Temporary World, which also occurs in the Princeton area. (I have a special fondness for the scene where Amory Blaine bikes at night with a friend from Princeton to my hometown.) Fitzgerald's writing is sharp, with sentences that swerve and dance, gorgeous and clever all at once. He always seems to have his eyes firmly fixed on the socio-existential prize.

Moreover, this book is really funny. I must have laughed out loud at least 30 times. The structure is self-consciously episodic, following a conventional, linear pattern of there-and-back again, with a rising arc. It's not lacking in structure as some critics on here claim. In fact, the plot is propelled more by Amory's thoughts about his emotional and intellectual progression than by old-fashioned conflict and resolution.

Also, I believe Fitzgerald is well aware of most of the things that people on here criticize him for regarding class. To me, he seems more often critical than complicit. For example, consider the end of his relationship with Rosalind, not to mention the final rant in the car. It's a lot like Tolstoy's Confession, but here the Egotist steps into the labyrinth of the rest of his life and realizes that he knows himself and nothing else. I'm really looking forward to reading the other F. Scott novels and then re-re-re-reading Gatsby.

There's no denying that F. Scott Fitzgerald was a gifted writer, even in the beginning.

However, a lot of his problems lay in the thinly-veiled autobiographical nature of his novels.

In "This Side of Paradise," the protagonist, Amory Blaine, is far from heroic. Like Fitzgerald himself, Amory was born into a wealthy family, attended prep school and then Princeton, drank excessively, struggled to find the right woman, and briefly worked for an ad agency.

The issue with using a bright, young man as a protagonist is that they can be incredibly tedious. Amory and his friends discuss ideas and literature with a tiresome solipsism, as if they were the first to ever think.

Once again, much if not most of Fitzgerald's novels are autobiographical, and I typically find his work brilliant. The problem with "This Side of Paradise" is that Fitzgerald the author hadn't yet developed into a sufficiently interesting person. Once alcohol, Zelda, and fame-fueled eccentricity came into play, his stories "showed" us a world apart from our own. "Paradise" does a lot of tedious "telling." The potential is clear, especially if we've read Fitzgerald's later works. Sadly, this is just a long 280 pages about an intelligent boy who loafed through college, dated a few interesting girls, had and lost a job, and spent a decade telling himself, his peers, and us readers how clever he is.

This Side of Paradise mainly faces the issue of not being on par with The Great Gatsby. Although I'm aware that This Side of Paradise is Fitzgerald's initial attempt at writing, The Great Gatsby is often the first introduction to Fitzgerald for most people. Naturally, people have certain expectations. Unfortunately, This Side of Paradise simply doesn't meet those expectations. One of the major drawbacks of TSoP is that it essentially lacks a coherent plot. It does have some rare flashes of brilliance, but one has to endure a significant amount of mediocre and uninteresting content to discover them. Nevertheless, I can't claim that I detested it. However, I must admit that I've had naps that were more engaging and stimulating than reading this book.

So, I had only read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and had been wanting to explore some of his other works. The other day, while I was in the car for an extended period, a copy of this book was lying on the floor. I picked it up and began reading.

In the end, in my opinion, it was just average. Fitzgerald's writing is indeed beautiful, but this book seemed to lack in the plot and story department. I believe that books about daily life can be interesting, but in this case, I couldn't bring myself to care about the protagonist. He comes across as a conceited jerk, and as far as I can tell, that's what he's supposed to be. However, even though such characters can be interesting, I just wasn't engaged in Amory's story. And for that matter, none of the characters really piqued my interest. There were numerous minor characters who simply appeared and disappeared without serving much purpose.

Moreover, I found the pacing to be awkward. Months or even years would pass within a paragraph or two, and much of it read more like a summary than a real story. There were also long passages of poetry and a random section written in play format, which were rather tedious to get through.

Overall, I had mixed feelings about this book. I mostly loved the writing, and I sort of understand what Fitzgerald was attempting to convey, but it just didn't click with me. Nevertheless, I still hope to give his other books a try.

Quando si deve creare una nuova categoria per classificare un libro, significa che si è di fronte a una di queste tre situazioni:

Situazione A: il libro affronta un tema sconosciuto o nuovo, mai letto da altre parti.

Situazione B: il libro è talmente bello che va classificato a parte.

Situazione C: il libro è talmente brutto che va classificato a parte.

Dato che la nuova categoria si chiama "abbandonato", si può intuire in quale situazione mi sia trovato stavolta. Tuttavia non è il libro che importa. Non stavolta.

Di questo libro ho un ricordo ben preciso. Lo comprai nel 2009, all'edicola che c'era (o forse c'è ancora) dentro la stazione di Bologna, prima della scalinata che portava al corridoio sotterraneo per l'accesso ai vari binari. Non avevano ancora rivisto tutto in funzione dell'AV, l'avvenieristica stazione attuale (che ho solo intravisto recentemente dai finestrini di un treno, di passaggio) era forse nemmeno un progetto. Insomma, sceso dal regionale da Trento e in attesa di prendere l'Intercity (sì, c'era ancora il caro vecchio economico Intercity) per Roma Termini, mi fermai all'edicola e, insieme al giornale, comprai anche questo libro ingiallito, lì da chissà quanto. Costava pochi soldi, e gli studenti universitari erano anche allora decisamente squattrinati. Ricordo che provai a leggerlo e che lo misi quasi immediatamente da parte, preferendogli addirittura il giornale.

Avevo 24 anni, ero innamorato, presi il treno per Roma e le vicissitudini di questo libro, da allora, si persero di scaffale in scaffale, di mensola in mensola. Polvere su polvere su polvere.

Giorni fa me lo rivedo per l'ennesima volta fra i libri non letti (ho una mensola apposita) e mi chiedo se non sarebbe l'ora di leggerlo, e di promuoverlo nella libreria autocostruita (più che egregiamente) da me medesimo in versione falegname, fra i libri letti. Nel bene o nel male.

Rivedo quella costa verde brillante, e la copertina di un giallo da giallo della Christie, con il ritratto di un giovane baldanzoso e che con baldanza guarda in avanti, verso il futuro. Non penso a me a 24 anni, tutt'altro. L'oggetto libro non mi comunica niente in questo senso. La memoria non rimanda a me.

Ho una pessima memoria, in generale. Più che pessima sui fatti del quotidiano: per tenere a mente le cose devo scrivere tutto in maniera quasi maniacale, dettagliando ogni cosa e ogni passaggio su carta, su post-it, su agenda o su qualunque supporto idoneo. Per il lavoro che faccio un mezzo disastro. Sopperisco a questi difetti con l'organizzazione e con una capacità logistica notevole. Quindi non ricordo mai dove ho comprato un libro, a meno che non lo scriva da qualche parte subito, o non conservi lo scontrino. A meno che dietro non ci sia una ragazza. Ecco, in quel caso ricordo tutto perfettamente. La mente elabora persino l'anno, il luogo dell'acquisto, tutto si lega e si tiene all'interno di un ricordo generale su un amore. Finito. E un libro, per quanto insignificante, ha un peso specifico persino superiore a libri che posso aver adorato, e persino a libri che ho adorato e che sono legati al ricordo di quella stessa persona (penso al Maestro e Margherita, che ho comprato insieme a lei, e che pure non mi riporta col pensiero a lei - la grandiosità del libro è riuscita a sopprimere persino un ricordo di tale potenza, il che per come è strutturata la mia mente è un risultato sorprendente).

Ho riaperto questo libro, dunque, e ci ho ritrovato dentro un cartoncino rosso, che segnava il punto dove ero arrivato all'epoca della prima lettura. Poche pagine, forse dieci. Il cartoncino rosso, un banalissimo ritaglio rettangolare 6x4 di un A4 colore rosso grammatura 200, portava su un lato una specie di smile stilizzato, una cosa rotonda con due occhi e la lingua di fuori. Tratto a matita. Riconosco il suo segno. Suo di lei. Sono anni che non la vedo, mi manca ma la consapevolezza che fra di noi, oltre a 600 chilometri in linea d'aria, ci sono due vite che hanno preso direzioni divergenti e oramai lontanissime e irrimediabilmente estranee mi rende tangibile in maniera amara come immensa possa divenire la distanza dalla persona a cui, per interi anni, sei stato più vicino rispetto a chiunque altro. Quasi una cosa unica. La crepa sul pavimento, il fosso lungo la provinciale che diventano una valle. Alla fine l'amore è una eccezione, la vicinanza emotiva e affettiva una vacanza della natura. L'errore (gli errori) che fanno andare avanti il mondo, tuttavia. Letteralmente.

A essere onesto, con me stesso prima che con gli altri, devo però sottolineare che la mia memoria non è solo e semplicemente scarsa. Lo è sulle questioni del quotidiano, sicuramente. Tuttavia possiedo una memoria didascalica eccezionale. Ricordo date e fatti - per lo più storici - come probabilmente pochi altri. E non lo dico per vantarmi: l'età e gli ostacoli della vita mi hanno insegnato a essere umile e seccamente pragmatico. Al liceo, alle interrogazioni di storia in cui i miei compagni erano dal poco al per nulla preparati, venivo mandato in avanscoperta durante la prima giornata di interrogazioni per debordare in interminabili esondazioni storiche che avevano come scopo strategico quello di far passare indenne agli altri le due ore successive. Io mi divertivo, il prof anche, i miei compagni la sfangavano e tutti erano contenti, alla fine.

Poi non ho seguito le mie inclinazioni e il mio talento, all'università ho fatto tutt'altro, la storia è rimasta un hobby e alla fine è andata bene, benissimo così. Ho imparato molto di più, ho sviluppato le mie predisposizioni all'ordine e all'organizzazione, ho appreso una immensità di nozioni altrimenti irraggiungibili, ho un lavoro a cui chiunque ambirebbe e a cui non sarei mai potuto arrivare senza quel percorso.

In tutto questo lei non c'è stata, probabilmente sta meglio dov'è ora rispetto a dove sarebbe stata con me. Forse è più felice, glielo auguro: la superbia di credermi migliore e più adatto a lei fra tutti gli altri, quelli che erano venuti prima e quelli che sono venuti dopo, costruisce vette di certezze apparantemente infrangibili, in realtà pezzi di ghiaccio che si sciolgono al primo sole. So che non è così. So che non è così, ma mi manca. Forse è lei - lei come donna e come persona - a mancarmi. O forse è solo il ricordo, che come sempre si cristallizza sulle cose belle dimenticando selettivamente quelle brutte, o meno belle. O forse sono quegli anni, vissuti in equilibrismo fra dovere e sentimenti, o la Città. Comunque mi piacerebbe rivederla. Chissà come sarebbe. Commovente, forse. O forse secco, triste e impersonale come una fucilata. Chissà chissà chissà.

Ah sì, il libro. E' orrendo. Oserei dire orripilante. Orrenda la traduzione. Talmente insignificante la trama (una serie di episodi sulla vita di un ragazzetto viziato, egotico, supponente e drammaticamente insopportabile) da non riuscire a coinvolgere nemmeno il più masochista fra i lettori. Inutilmente barocca e iperbolica la scrittura: pagine su pagine di inezie, facezie, stupidaggini; nulla, ma proprio nulla di importante. L'ho abbandonato verso pag. 40 senza nessun rimpianto. Se il celebratissimo grande Gatsby è su questi livelli siamo messi molto male. Anzi, malissimo.

I really wanted to like this book.

After all, it seemed to have all the elements that usually appeal to me. There was the theme of gradual disillusionment with life, which I often find interesting.

And there was a character that I could somewhat relate to, with a bad work ethic and excessive emotional reactions.

However, the problem was that I simply couldn't stand it when people were condescending or overly concerned about status.

This aspect of the character made it extremely difficult for me to like him.

On top of that, I was quite unsure about the plot or the purpose of the book.

There was a significant amount of random poetry interspersed between the prose, and to be honest, I didn't think the poetry was very good.

The book just seemed to meander aimlessly.

The main character was unlikable, and none of the other characters were developed in a meaningful way.

As a result, I really didn't like this one. In fact, I liked it even less than The Great Gatsby. Mostly, I just felt bored throughout the entire reading experience.

It's a shame because it had the potential to be something great, but unfortunately, it fell short in many aspects.

Fitzgerald's first novel, 'This Side of Paradise', is not the best place to start with the author. I would recommend 'The Great Gatsby' instead. However, if you have already read some of his other works and are familiar with his style and life, then this book can be quite enjoyable. It is a highly autobiographical account where Fitzgerald vents his disappointment and disgust with the world.

The novel follows the life of Amory, a wealthy and egotistical Princeton student, from his college years to the onset of World War I and the subsequent changes in society. Surprisingly, the war does not hold much significance for Amory (as it was for Fitzgerald), but it does showcase its consequences.

Like all of Fitzgerald's novels that I have read, this one left me with more of an impact than I expected. The last 100 pages were particularly engaging, with their critical and nonconformist tone. Although the characters are often unlikable due to their wealthy and arrogant nature, I still found their antics entertaining. Even in Amory's tragic love affairs, I was able to find some reflection on the limited situation of women at that time.

Another notable aspect is Fitzgerald's wonderful prose, which is unrivaled even in his first work. Additionally, the book's unique format, which intersperses letters, poems, and even a small theatrical drama, adds to its charm. All in all, while not one of his greatest novels, 'This Side of Paradise' still managed to delight and surprise me with the author's mastery of words.

The Jazz Age was a time of wild abandon and unrestrained hedonism, and F. Scott Fitzgerald's first book is a glorious tribute to this era.

He stretches out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
"I know myself," he cried, "But that is all.”

I, for one, am completely enamored with the Jazz Age. The copious amounts of alcohol, the infectious music, and the unapologetic raunchiness all contribute to its allure. It's a time of pure decadence that Fitzgerald captures beautifully in his writing.

In this book, he follows the life of young Amory Blaine as he makes his way through college and experiences a series of passionate romances. Despite the story taking place decades ago, there are still elements that modern readers can relate to. Fitzgerald's writing is not only engaging but also great fun to read. There's truly something for everyone to enjoy in this love letter to the Jazz Age.

"I'm a slave to my emotions, to my likes, to my hatred of boredom, to most of my desires.” This quote perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the Jazz Age and the characters within Fitzgerald's book.

(audiobook)
This was truly such a quintessential Fitzgerald novel, and in that regard, I wholeheartedly loved it!

I found myself feeling extremely unsympathetic towards the main protagonist, Amory Blaine. However, I believe that was precisely the point. He is an individual who is incredibly vain and becomes completely immersed in a world that is rife with greed and the pursuit of status. It is quite a fascinating portrayal.

One aspect that I adored about this novel was the numerous references to different literary and art idols such as Tolstoy and Charles Dana Gibson. These references added an extra layer of depth and richness to the story.

Now, the question arises: was this the best novel I've ever read? Unfortunately, the answer is no. But did I enjoy it? Absolutely!! It had its own charm and allure that kept me engaged from beginning to end.

Clearly an early work from 1920, it is evident that it has many imperfections. However, despite these flaws, it still manages to captivate the reader. The composition of the piece is a bit messy and pluriform, which means that not everything within it is equally good. The central themes explored are that of the Fallen Angel and of punctured certainties. Perhaps this work could be more accurately qualified as a Quest rather than a 'Bildungsroman' or a 'coming-of-age' story. As one reads through it, there is a sense that it is a bit like the works of Oscar Wilde, with an intrusive accumulation of quotes. Overall, it earns a rating of 2.5 stars.

For a detailed Hebrew review, the link to my blog -

https://sivi-the-avid-reader.com/this...

This blog post offers a unique opportunity for those interested in Hebrew literature and reviews. The provided link leads to a comprehensive review of "This Side of Paradise" by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

By clicking on the link, readers can explore in-depth analysis, personal insights, and a detailed examination of the novel.

The blog aims to provide a platform for avid readers like Sivi to share their thoughts and interpretations, enriching the literary community.

Whether you are a fan of Fitzgerald or simply looking for a thought-provoking read, this blog post and its associated review are sure to captivate your interest.

So, don't hesitate to visit the link and embark on a literary journey through the pages of "This Side of Paradise."