It’s easy to forget, in the long memory of a worse time, that there was something bright before it; it’s hard not to write a story where every single thing one does before things go wrong is the cause of what went wrong, joy into culpability and fun into guilt. As though bad ideas are never parties; as though parties are always harbingers. As though everything has to be something more than itself.
Passages like that are why I rarely publish memoir material: mine is always too overwrought, while Fitzgerald has the knack of pitching it just right, sat square in the gap in the mix between profound and mundane — words that move you, but which might nonetheless have been said aloud by someone thinking things through while sat across the table from you.
This is a brutal time of year, even if all times of year are brutal in their own way. No matter how much I try to convince myself that it’s good, actually, the sudden dark after daylight savings feels like an accounting of all the ways I have wasted time and gotten older.
So much more thoughtful than my own recent railing against the elements, no?
(No, I’m not beating up on myself and my own writing, here — this is just a way for me to externalise thoughts about style. By trying to explain it to you, the imagined audience of this blog, I explain it to myself in a way that can’t be achieved by merely thinking about it, or by scribbling in a notebook. I remain one of those writers who writes less to share what they think about something, and more to discover it.)