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Fitzgerald - Afternoon of an Author

Fitzgerald - Afternoon of an Author

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Published by Noemi

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Published by: Noemi on May 22, 2009
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07/08/2010

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 Afternoon of an Author
Fitzgerald, Francis Scott
Published:
1936
Type(s):
Short Fiction
Source:
http://gutenberg.net.au
1
 
 About Fitzgerald:
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, 1896 – December 21, 1940) was an American Jazz Age author of novels and short stories. He is regarded as one of the greatest twentieth century writers. Fitzgerald was of the self-styled "LostGeneration," Americans born in the 1890s who came of age during World War I.He finished four novels, left a fifth unfinished, and wrote dozens of short storiesthat treat themes of youth, despair, and age.
 Also available on Feedbooks for Fitzgerald:
(1925)
(1933)
(1936)
(1924)
(1920)
(1922)
(1931)
(1920)
(1937)
(1922)
Copyright:
This work is available for countries where copyright is Life+50.Cette oeuvre est disponible pour les pays où le droit d'auteur est de 50 ans aprèsmort de l'auteur.
Note:
This book is brought to you by Feedbooks.http://www.feedbooks.comStrictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercial purposes.
 2
 
Chapter 
1
When he woke up he felt better than he had for many weeks, a fact that be-came plain to him negatively—he did not feel ill. He leaned for a moment againstthe door frame between his bedroom and bath till he could be sure he was notdizzy. Not a bit, not even when he stooped for a slipper under the bed.It was a bright April morning, he had no idea what time because his clock waslong unwound but as he went back through the apartment to the kitchen he sawthat his daughter had breakfasted and departed and that the mail was in, so itwas after nine."I think I'll go out today," he said to the maid."Do you good—it's a lovely day." She was from New Orleans, with the featuresand coloring of an Arab."I want two eggs like yesterday and toast, orange juice and tea."He lingered for a moment in his daughter's end of the apartment and read hismail. It was an annoying mail with nothing cheerful in it—mostly bills and ad-vertisements with the diurnal Oklahoma school boy and his gaping autograph al-bum. Sam Goldwyn might do a ballet picture with Spessiwitza and might not—itwould all have to wait till Mr. Goldwyn got back from Europe when he mighthave half a dozen new ideas. Paramount wanted a release on a poem that had ap-peared in one of the author's books, as they didn't know whether it was an origin-al or quoted. Maybe they were going to get a title from it. Anyhow he had no moreequity in that property—he had sold the silent rights many years ago and thesound rights last year."Never any luck with movies," he said to himself. "Stick to your last, boy."He looked out the window during breakfast at the students changing classes onthe college campus across the way."Twenty years ago I was changing classes," he said to the maid. She laughedher débutante's laugh."I'll need a check," she said, "if you're going out.""Oh, I'm not going out yet. I've got two or three hours' work. I meant late thisafternoon.""Going for a drive?""I wouldn't drive that old junk—I'd sell it for fifty dollars. I'm going on the topof a bus." After breakfast he lay down for fifteen minutes. Then he went into the studyand began to work.The problem was a magazine story that had become so thin in the middle thatit was about to blow away. The plot was like climbing endless stairs, he had no
3

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