Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgeraldby Therese Anne Fowler
"When I saw that Amazon Prime was unveiling its original pilot for Z, a biographical series based on Therese Anne Fowler's novel about Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, I raised a wary eyebrow. . . But I was wrong, oh me of little faith. . . [I]t's an enveloping period piece, perfectly cast, and I would like to see the pilot green-lighted into a series so that we can/i>… See more details below
"When I saw that Amazon Prime was unveiling its original pilot for Z, a biographical series based on Therese Anne Fowler's novel about Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, I raised a wary eyebrow. . . But I was wrong, oh me of little faith. . . [I]t's an enveloping period piece, perfectly cast, and I would like to see the pilot green-lighted into a series so that we can see this romance go up like a rocket with one loud champagne pop and strew debris across mansion lawns and luxury hotel lobbies in its transcontinental path." —Vanity Fair
I wish I could tell everyone who thinks we're ruined, Look closer…and you'll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.
When beautiful, reckless Southern belle Zelda Sayre meets F. Scott Fitzgerald at a country club dance in 1918, she is seventeen years old and he is a young army lieutenant stationed in Alabama. Before long, the "ungettable" Zelda has fallen for him despite his unsuitability: Scott isn't wealthy or prominent or even a Southerner, and keeps insisting, absurdly, that his writing will bring him both fortune and fame. Her father is deeply unimpressed. But after Scott sells his first novel, This Side of Paradise, to Scribner's, Zelda optimistically boards a train north, to marry him in the vestry of St. Patrick's Cathedral and take the rest as it comes.
What comes, here at the dawn of the Jazz Age, is unimagined attention and success and celebrity that will make Scott and Zelda legends in their own time. Everyone wants to meet the dashing young author of the scandalous novel—and his witty, perhaps even more scandalous wife. Zelda bobs her hair, adopts daring new fashions, and revels in this wild new world. Each place they go becomes a playground: New York City, Long Island, Hollywood, Paris, and the French Riviera—where they join the endless party of the glamorous, sometimes doomed Lost Generation that includes Ernest Hemingway, Sara and Gerald Murphy, and Gertrude Stein.
Everything seems new and possible. Troubles, at first, seem to fade like morning mist. But not even Jay Gatsby's parties go on forever. Who is Zelda, other than the wife of a famous—sometimes infamous—husband? How can she forge her own identity while fighting her demons and Scott's, too? With brilliant insight and imagination, Therese Anne Fowler brings us Zelda's irresistible story as she herself might have told it.
“Fowler expertly depicts the rapture of the couple's early love, and later, the bullying and sickness that drove them apart…Z zips along addictively.” Entertainment Weekly
“[A] richly imagined novel…Here [Zelda's] touching story is also fascinating and funny, it animates an entire era.” People
“A gorgeously rendered piece of literary entertainment, not a biography but rather a love story set in the Jazz Age.” The Daily News
“A tender, intimate exploration of a complicated woman.” Library Journal
“Fowler's Zelda is all we would expect and more…once she meets the handsome Scott, her life takes off on an arc of indulgence and decadence that still causes us to shake our heads in wonder…soirées with Picasso and his mistress, with Cole Porter and his wife, with Gerald and Sara Murphy, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Ezra Pound and Jean Cocteau. Scott's friendship with Hemingway verges on a love affair--at least it's close enough to one to make Zelda jealous. Ultimately, both of these tragic, pathetic and grand characters are torn apart by their inability to love or leave each other. Fowler has given us a lovely, sad and compulsively readable book.” Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Fowler renders rich period detal in this portrayal of a fascinating woman both blessed--and cursed--by fame.” Booklist
“With lyrical prose, Fowler's Z beautifully portrays the frenzied lives of, and complicated relationship between, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald...This is a novel that will open readers' minds to the life of an often misunderstood woman--one not easily forgotten.” RT Book Reviews
“A novel that is as heartbreaking as it is mesmerizing. About love, desire, betrayal, and one extraordinary woman struggling to shine in the world--even as the one she loves best is drawing the shades. Just magnificent.” Caroline Leavitt
“A wonderfully engaging read. With crisp dialogue and vivid descriptions, Z delivers both a compelling love story and a poignant tale of a woman coming into her own as an artist.” Heidi W. Durrow
“An utterly engrossing portrayal of Zelda Fitzgerald and the legendary circles in which she moved. In the spirit of Loving Frank and The Paris Wife, Therese Anne Fowler shines a light on Zelda instead of her more famous husband, providing both justice and the voice she struggled to have heard in her lifetime.” Sara Gruen
Fowler expertly depicts the rapture of the couple's early love, and later, the bullying and sickness that drove them apart…Z zips along addictively.
[A] richly imagined novel…Here [Zelda's] touching story is also fascinating and funny, it animates an entire era.
A gorgeously rendered piece of literary entertainment, not a biography but rather a love story set in the Jazz Age.
Fowler renders rich period detal in this portrayal of a fascinating woman both blessed--and cursed--by fame.
With lyrical prose, Fowler's Z beautifully portrays the frenzied lives of, and complicated relationship between, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald...This is a novel that will open readers' minds to the life of an often misunderstood woman--one not easily forgotten.
A novel that is as heartbreaking as it is mesmerizing. About love, desire, betrayal, and one extraordinary woman struggling to shine in the world--even as the one she loves best is drawing the shades. Just magnificent.
A wonderfully engaging read. With crisp dialogue and vivid descriptions, Z delivers both a compelling love story and a poignant tale of a woman coming into her own as an artist.
An utterly engrossing portrayal of Zelda Fitzgerald and the legendary circles in which she moved. In the spirit of Loving Frank and The Paris Wife, Therese Anne Fowler shines a light on Zelda instead of her more famous husband, providing both justice and the voice she struggled to have heard in her lifetime.
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Read an Excerpt
Picture a late-June morning in 1918, a time when Montgomery wore her prettiest spring dress and finest floral perfume—same as I would wear that evening. Our house, a roomy Victorian on Pleasant Avenue, was wrapped in the tiny white blooms of Confederate jasmine and the purple splendor of morning glories. It was a Saturday, and early yet, and cloudy. Birds had congregated in the big magnolia tree and were singing at top volume as if auditioning to be soloists in a Sunday choir.
From our back stairway’s window I saw a slow horse pulling a rickety wagon. Behind it walked two colored women who called out the names of vegetables as they went. Beets! Sweet peas! Turnips! they sang, louder even than the birds.
“Hey, Katy,” I said, coming into the kitchen. “Bess and Clara are out there, did you hear ’em?” On the wide wooden table was a platter covered by a dish towel. “Plain?” I asked hopefully, reaching beneath the towel for a biscuit.
“No, cheese—now, don’t make that face,” she said, opening the door to wave to her friends. “Nothin’ today!” she shouted. Turning to me, she said, “You can’t have peach preserves every day of your life.”
“Old Aunt Julia said that was the only thing keepin’ me sweet enough to evade the devil.” I bit into the biscuit and said, mouth full, “Are the Lord and Lady still asleep?”
“They both in the parlor, which I ’spect you know since you used the back stairway.”
I set my biscuit aside so as to roll my blue skirt’s waistband one more turn, allowing another inch of skin to show above my bare ankles. “There.”
“Maybe I best get you the preserves after all,” Katy told me, shaking her head. “You mean to wear shoes, at least.”
“It’s too hot—and if it rains, they’ll just get soaked and my toes’ll prune up and the skin’ll peel and then I’ll have to go shoeless and I can’t, I have my ballet solo tonight.”
“My own mama would whip me if I’s to go in public like that,” Katy clucked.
“She would not, you’re thirty years old.”
“You think that matter to her?”
I thought of how my parents still counseled and lectured my three sisters and my brother, all at least seven years older than me, all full adults with children of their own—except for Rosalind. Tootsie, we call her. She and Newman, who was off fighting in France, same as our sister Tilde’s husband, John, were taking their time about parenthood—or maybe it was taking its time about them. And I thought of how my grandmother Musidora, when she lived with us, couldn’t help advising Daddy about everything from his haircuts to his rulings. The thing, then, was to get away from one’s parents, and stay away.
“Anyway, never mind,” I said as I went for the back door, sure that my escape was at hand. “Long as no one here sees me—”
“Baby!” I jumped at Mama’s voice coming from the doorway behind us. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, “where are your stockings and shoes?”
“I’m just goin’—”
“—right back to your room to get dressed. You can’t think you were walking to town that way!”
Katy said, “S’cuse me, I just remembered we low on turnips,” and out she went.
“Not to town,” I lied. “To the orchard. I’m goin’ to practice for tonight.” I extended my arms and did a graceful plié.
Mama said, “Yes, lovely. I’m sure, however, that there’s no time for practice; didn’t you say the Red Cross meeting starts at nine?”
“What time is it?” I turned to see that the clock read twenty minutes ’til. I rushed past Mama and up the stairs, saying, “I better get my shoes and get out of here!”
“Please tell me you’re wearing your corset,” she called.
Tootsie was in the upstairs hallway still dressed in her nightgown, hair disheveled, sleep in her eyes. “What’s all this?”
When Newman had gone off to France in the fall to fight with General Pershing, Tootsie came back home to live until he returned. “If he returns,” she’d said glumly, earning a stern look from Daddy—who we all called the Judge, his being an associate Alabama Supreme Court justice. “Show some pride,” he’d scolded Tootsie. “No matter the outcome, Newman’s service honors the South.” And she said, “Daddy, it’s the twentieth century, for heaven’s sake.”
Now I told her, “I’m light a layer, according to Her Highness.”
“Really, Baby, if you go out with no corset, men will think you’re—”
“Maybe I don’t care,” I said. “Everything’s different now anyway. The War Industries Board said not to wear corsets—”
“They said not to buy them. But that was a good try.” She followed me into my bedroom. “Even if you don’t care about social convention, have a thought for yourself; if the Judge knew you left the house half-naked, he would have your hide.”
“I was tryin’ to have a thought for myself,” I said, stripping off my blouse, “and then all you people butted in.”
Mama was still in the kitchen when I clattered back down the stairs. “That’s better. Now the skirt,” she said, pointing at my waist.
“Mama, no. It gets in my way when I run.”
“Just fix it, please. I can’t have you spoiling the Judge’s good name just so you can get someplace faster.”
“Nobody’s out this early but the help, and anyway, when did you get so fussy?”
“It’s a matter of what’s appropriate. You’re seventeen years old—”
“Eighteen, in twenty-six more days.”
“Yes, that’s right, even more to the point,” she said. “Too old to still be a tomboy.”
“Call me a fashion plate, then. Hemlines are goin’ up, I saw it in McCall’s.”
She pointed at my skirt. “Not as high as that.”
I kissed her on her softening jawline. No cream or powder could hide Time’s toll on Mama’s features. She’d be fifty-seven on her next birthday, and all those years showed in her lined face, her upswept hairdo, her insistence on sticking with her Edwardian shirtwaists and floor-sweeping skirts. She outright refused to make anything new for herself. “There’s a war going on,” she’d say, as if that explained everything. Tootsie and I had been so proud when she gave up her bustle at New Year’s.
I said, “So long, Mama—don’t wait lunch for me, I’m goin’ to the diner with the girls.”
Then the second I was out of sight, I sat down in the grass and pulled off my shoes and stockings to free my toes. Too bad, I thought, that my own freedom couldn’t be had so easily.
* * *
Thunder rumbled in the distance as I headed toward Dexter Avenue, the wide thoroughfare that runs right up to the domed, columned state capitol, the most impressive building I had ever seen. Humming “Dance of the Hours,” the tune I’d perform to later, I skipped along amid the smell of clipped grass and wet moss and sweet, decaying catalpa blooms.
Ballet, just then, was my one true love, begun at age nine when Mama had enrolled me in Professor Weisner’s School of Dance—a failed attempt to keep me out of the trees and off the roofs. In ballet’s music and motion there was joy and drama and passion and romance, all the things I desired from life. There were costumes, stories, parts to play, chances to be more than just the littlest Sayre girl—last in line, forever wanting to be old enough to be old enough.
I was on Mildred Street just past where it intersected with Sayre—named for my family, yes—when a sprinkle hit my cheek, and then one hit my forehead, and then God turned the faucet on full. I ran for the nearest tree and stood beneath its branches, for what little good it did. The wind whipped the leaves and the rain all around me and I was soaked in no time. Since I couldn’t get any wetter, I just went on my way, imagining the trees as a troupe of swaying dancers and me an escaped orphan freed, finally, from a powerful warlock’s tyranny. I might be lost in the forest, but as in all the best ballets, a prince was sure to happen along shortly.
At the wide circular fountain where Court Street joined Dexter Avenue, I leaned against the railing and shook my unruly hair to get the water out. A few soggy automobiles motored up the boulevard and streetcars clanged past while I considered whether to just chuck my stockings and shoes into the fountain rather than wear them wet. Then I thought, Eighteen, in twenty-six days, and put the damn things back on.
Properly clothed, more or less, I went up the street toward the Red Cross’s new office, set among the shops on the south side of Dexter. Though the rain was tapering off, the sidewalks were still mostly empty—few witnesses to my dishevelment, then, which would make Mama happy. She worries about the oddest things, I thought. All the women do. There were so many rules we girls were supposed to adhere to, so much emphasis on propriety. Straight backs. Gloved hands. Unpainted (and unkissed) lips. Pressed skirts, modest words, downturned eyes, chaste thoughts. A lot of nonsense, in my view. Boys liked me because I shot spitballs and because I told sassy jokes and because I let ’em kiss me if they smelled nice and I felt like it. My standards were based on good sense, not the logic of lemmings. Sorry, Mama. You’re better than most.
Some twenty volunteers had gathered at the Red Cross, most of them friends of mine, who, when they saw me, barely raised an eyebrow at my state. Only my oldest sister, Marjorie, who was bustling round with pamphlets and pastries, made a fuss.
“Baby, what a fright you look! Did you not wear a hat?” She attempted to smooth my hair, then gave up, saying, “It’s hopeless. Here.” She handed me a dish towel. “Dry off. If we didn’t need volunteers so badly, I’d send you home.”
“Quit worryin’,” I told her, rubbing the towel over my head.
She’d keep worrying anyway, I knew; she’d been fourteen when I was born, practically my second mother until she married and moved into a house two blocks away—and by then, of course, the habit was ingrained. I looped the towel around her neck, then went to find a seat.
Eleanor Browder, my best friend at the time, had saved me a spot across from her at a long row of tables. To my right was Sara Mayfield—Second Sara, we called her, Sara the First being our friend serene Sara Haardt, who now went to college in Baltimore. Second Sara was paired with Livye Hart, whose glossy, mahogany-colored hair was like my friend Tallulah Bankhead’s. Tallu and her glossy dark hair won a Picture-Play beauty contest when we were fifteen, and now she was turning that win into a New York City acting career. She and her hair had a life of travel and glamour that I envied, despite my love for Montgomery; surely no one told Tallu how long her skirts should be.
Waiting for the meeting to start, we girls fanned ourselves in the airless room. Its high, apricot-colored walls were plastered with Red Cross posters. One showed a wicker basket overflowing with yarn and a pair of knitting needles; it exhorted readers, “Our boys need SOX. Knit your bit.” Another featured a tremendous stark red cross, to the right of which was a nurse in flowing dress and robes that could not be a bit practical. The nurse’s arms cradled an angled stretcher, on which a wounded soldier lay with a dark blanket wrapped around both the stretcher and him. The perspective was such that the nurse appeared to be a giantess—and the soldier appeared at risk of sliding from that stretcher, feet first, if the nurse didn’t turn her distant gaze to the matter at hand. Below the image was this proclamation: “The Greatest Mother in the World.”
I elbowed Sara and pointed to the poster. “What do you reckon? Is she supposed to be the Virgin Mother?”
Sara didn’t get a chance to answer. There was a rapping of a cane on the wooden floor, and we all turned toward stout Mrs. Baker, in her steel-gray, belted suit. She was a formidable woman who’d come down from Boston to help instruct the volunteers, a woman who seemed as if she might be able to win the war single-handedly if only someone would put her on a boat to France.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said in her drawl-less, nasal voice. “I see you’ve found our new location without undue effort. The war continues, and so we must continue—indeed, redouble—our efforts for membership and productivity.”
Some of the girls cheered. They were the younger ones who’d only just been allowed to join.
Mrs. Baker nodded, which made her chin disappear into her neck briefly, and then she continued, “Now, some of you have done finger and arm bandages; the principle of the leg and body bandages is the same. However, there are some significant differences to which we must attend. For any who have not been so instructed, I will start the lesson from the beginning. We start, first, with sheets of unbleached calico…”
I squeezed rainwater from my hem while Mrs. Baker lectured about widths and lengths and tension and began a demonstration. She handed the end of a loose strip of fabric to the girl sitting nearest and said, “Stand up, my dear. One of you holds the bulk of the fabric and feeds it through as needed—that person is the rollee. The roller’s thumbs must be on the upper aspect of the fabric, the forefinger beneath, like so. As we proceed, the forefingers are kept firmly against the roll, thumbs advanced for maximum tautness. Everyone, up now and begin.”
I took a loosely tied bundle of fabric from one of several baskets lined up along the floor behind me. The fabric was pure white at the moment, sure, but it would soon be blood-soaked and covering a man’s whole middle, crusted with dirt and irresistible to flies. I’d seen photographs of Civil War soldiers suffering this way, in books that depicted what Daddy called “the atrocities done to us by the Union.”
It was my brother, Tony, seven years older than me and now serving in France, who Daddy meant to educate with the books and the discussions. He never shooed me out of the parlor, though. He would wave me over from where I might be picking out a simple tune on the piano and let me perch on his knee.
“The Sayres have a proud history in Montgomery,” he’d say, paging through one of the books. “Here. This is my uncle William’s original residence, where he raised his younger brother Daniel, your grandfather. It became the first Confederate White House.”
“So Sayre Street is named for us, Daddy?” I asked with all the wonder of my seven or eight years.
“It honors William and my father. The two of them made this town what it is, children.”
Tony seemed to take the Sayre family history as a matter of course. I, however, was fascinated with all of these now-dead relatives and would continue to ask questions about which of them had done what, when. I wanted stories.
From Daddy, I got tales of how his father, Daniel Sayre, founded a Tuskegee paper, then returned to Montgomery to edit the Montgomery Post, becoming an influential voice in local politics. And Daddy told me about his mother’s brother, “the great General John Tyler Morgan,” who’d pummeled Union troops every chance he got, then later became a prominent U.S. Senator. From Mama I came to know her father, Willis Machen, the U.S. Senator from Kentucky, whose friendship with Senator Morgan was responsible for my parents’ meeting at Senator Morgan’s New Year’s Eve ball in 1883. Grandfather Machen had once been a presidential candidate.
I wondered, that day at the Red Cross, if our family’s history was burdensome to Tony, oppressive, maybe. And maybe that was why he’d married Edith, whose people were tenant farmers, and then left Montgomery to live and work in Mobile. To be the only surviving son in a family—and not the first son, not the son who’d been named after the grandfather upon whose shoulders so much of Montgomery’s fate had apparently rested, not the son who’d died from meningitis at just eighteen months old—well, that was a heavy yoke.
Untying the calico bundle, I redirected my thoughts and handed Eleanor the fabric’s loose end. “I had a letter yesterday from Arthur Brennan,” I said. “Remember him, from our last trip to Atlanta?”
Eleanor frowned in concentration as she tried to form the start of the roll. “Was it thumbs under, or forefingers under?”
“Fingers. Arthur’s people have been in cotton since before the Revolution. They’ve still got old slaves who never wanted to go, which Daddy says is proof that President Lincoln ruined the South for nothin’.”
Eleanor made a few successful turns, then looked up. “Arthur’s the boy with that green Dort car? The glossy one we rode in?”
“That’s him. Wasn’t it delicious? Arthur said Dorts cost twice what a Ford does—a thousand dollars, maybe more. The Judge would as soon dance naked in front of the courthouse as spend that kind of money on a car.”
The notion amused me; as I continued feeding the fabric to Eleanor, I imagined a scene in which Daddy exited the streetcar in his pin-striped suit, umbrella furled, leather satchel in hand. Parked at the base of the broad, marble courthouse steps would be a green Dort, its hood sleek and gleaming in the sunshine, its varnished running boards aglow. A man in a top hat and tailcoat—some agent of the devil, he’d be—would beckon my father over to the car; there would be a conversation; Daddy would shake his head and frown and gesture with his umbrella; he would raise a finger as he pontificated about relative value and the ethics of overspending; the top-hatted man would shake his head firmly, leaving Daddy no choice but to disrobe on the spot, and dance.
In this vision I allowed my father the dignity of being at a distance from my vantage point, and facing away from me. In truth, I hadn’t yet seen a man undressed—though I’d seen young boys, and Renaissance artwork, which I supposed were representational enough.
“Speaking of nakedness,” Eleanor said, leaning across the table to take the end of the bandage from me, “last night at the movie house, an aviator—Captain Wendell Haskins, he said—asked me was the rumor true about you parading around the pool in a flesh-colored bathing suit. He was at the movies with May Steiner, and asking about you, isn’t that sublime? May was at the concession just then, so she didn’t hear him; that was gentlemanly, at least.”
Sara said, “I sure wish I’d been at the pool that day, just to see the old ladies’ faces.”
“Were you at the dance last winter when Zelda pinned the mistletoe to the back of her skirt?” Livye said.
“You should’ve been down here with us on Wednesday,” Eleanor told them. “Zelda commandeered our streetcar while the driver was on the corner finishing a smoke. We just left him there with his eyes bulging and went rolling on up Perry Street!”
“I swear, Zelda, you have all the fun,” Sara said. “And you never get in trouble!”
Eleanor said, “Everyone’s afraid of her daddy, so they just shake their finger at her and let her go.”
I nodded. “Even my sisters are scared of him.”
“But you’re not,” Livye said.
“He barks way more than he bites. So, El, what’d you tell Captain Haskins?”
“I said, ‘Don’t tell a soul, Captain, but there was no bathing suit at all.’”
Livye snorted, and I said, “See, El, that’s what I like about you. Keep that up and all the matrons will be calling you wicked, too.”
Eleanor reached for a pin from a bowl on the table, then secured the bandage’s end. “He asked whether you had a favorite beau, who your people were, what your daddy did, and whether you had siblings—”
Sara said, “Might be he just wanted some excuse to make conversation with you, Eleanor.”
“In which case he might have thought of one or two questions about me.” Eleanor smiled at Sara fondly. “No, he’s most certainly fixated on Miss Zelda Sayre of 6 Pleasant Avenue, she of the toe shoes and angel’s wings.”
Livye said, “And devil’s smile.”
“And pure heart,” Sara added. I pretended to retch.
“He said he’s not serious about May,” Eleanor said. “Also, he intends to phone you.”
“He already has.”
“But you haven’t said yes yet.”
“I’m booked up ’til fall,” I said, and it was true; between the college boys who’d so far avoided military service and the flood of officers come to train at Montgomery’s new military installations, I had more male attention than I knew what to do with.
Sara took my hand. “If you like him, you shouldn’t wait. They might ship out any day, you know.”
“Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “It might be now or never.”
I pulled my hand from Sara’s and lifted another pile of fabric from the basket behind us. “There’s a war, in case you haven’t heard. It might end up being now and then never. So what’s the use?”
Eleanor said, “That hasn’t stopped you from seeing a military man before. He’s awfully handsome.…”
“He is that. When he phones again, maybe I’ll—”
“Chatter later, ladies,” Mrs. Baker scolded as she strolled by, hands clasped behind her back, bosom straining forward like a warship’s prow. “Important though your affairs may be, our brave young men would appreciate your giving their welfare more speed and attention.”
When Mrs. Baker was past, I tilted my head and put my forearm to my eyes, mouthing, “Oh! The shame of it!” as if I were Mary Pickford herself.
Copyright © 2013 by Therese Anne Fowler
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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Therese Fowler is a very talented writer as have read all her books--once again she has written a winner! Hats off first with the stunning cover (an eye catcher) and the research involved in putting together this extraordinary novel! Everything about the roaring 20s is appealing from the glitz, glamour, romance, travels, parties, culture, and fashion. As a lover of Scott Fitzgerald and The Great Gatsby, the first person fiction from Zelda’s perspective was nicely portrayed, transporting you back in time, setting the mood for each adventure. You get caught up into Zelda’s lifestyle as she experiences the highs and lows of a complex relationship of love and hate. She was talented and misunderstood-a Southern belle merging from the naïve protected girl to the struggles of power, success, fame, travel, alcoholism, infidelity, and mental illness and tough choices as she struggles for her own independence and self-worth. Well done!
This is an incredibly readable novel, one of the best I have read about Fitzgeralds. As a university English professor, I have done a great deal of research on both Scott and Zelda, and the research here is impeccable. What Fowler has also done, is write a wonderful readable novel. The prose moves swiftly; no details are superfluous, repetitive or unnecessary. I stayed up half the night finishing this. What I also really appreciate is that Fowler tries to address several of the mythologized aspects of Zelda's life. Read Fowler's ending notes and you will see how she explains using the vast amounts of research available on this couple--including their own letters--to try and present a rationale view of what happened during that tragic, turbulent relationship. What emerges is Zelda as a sheltered, spoiled, naïve young debutante, whisked away by the romantic notions presented to her by a mysterious, brash young man--a young man who offered her a way out of that safe and predictable existence she knew. The fact her parents were dead-set against it only added to the allure. To see this bright spirit crushed and distorted against her husbands' excessive ambition, immaturity, alcoholism and insecurities is tragic. Zelda is a heartbreaking figure and Fowler does a beautiful job bringing her to light. One of the best books I've read this year, so far.
I loved this book! Perfect for fans of The Paris Wife or Rules of Civility.
This in an incredible story about the life of Zelda Fitzgerald! Fowler captures the lives of Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald in such a way that makes you never want to stop reading!
I hope that, in another life, I was Zelda Fitzgerald. In Z, A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, Therese Anne Fowler has captured the most amazing and interesting character of a real-life person and spun a fascinating tale of what her life was like as the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald. The voice of the book is intriguing and unique and I couldn't help but be drawn into the 1920's and wish I were living this glamorous, chaotic life...until it came crashing down. Fowler has managed not only to grab my attention for the reading of this book but also to rekindle an interest in the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Ezra Pound. I even put on a Cole Porter album to listen to while reading the last few chapters. If you'd like to be transported to another time and place do not hesitate to read Z. Victoria Allman author of: SEAsoned: A Chef's Journey with Her Captain
Being a big fan of F Scott Fitzgerald I thought this would be a great read and it was interesting but not a must read. An unexpectedly sad tale that made me want to learn more about her though to see how others viewed her and their relationship. For those that really loved The Paris Wife, you will likely enjoy this as well.
If you liked The Paris Wife, you will love Z. Fowler writes an incredible story of the life and times Zelda Fitzgerald and her struggle to establish her own talents, find self worth all in the shadow of her infamous/famous husband F. Scott Fitzgerald. Great book!
Z: A NOVEL OF ZELDA FITZGERALD written by Therese Ann Fowler,read by Jenna Lamia is a wonderful historical/autobiography set during the 1920’2. A powerful story of the Fitzgeralds,the Jazz age,the roaring 20′s,love,the life and times of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his beautiful wife,Zelda. Their drinking,jealousy,obsession,fame,and Zelda’s diagnosis of Schizophrenia and her stay in a Swiss Mental facility. An autobiography of a fascinating couple in American history,F. Scott Fitzgerald. I think we all have read “The Great Gatsby” in high school,but this story will make you want to re-read that story with a new look. Oh yeah, did I mention Ernest Hemingway. The reading of this story was very smoothly done, holding your interest. And yes the reader uses a Southern drawl often to carry the story. Being from the South, I enjoyed the Sourthern drawl. A wonderful and intriguing audio. Be warned: It may contain some offensive language to some readers! Received for an honest review. *On Sale 3/26/2013* * Published simultaneously with the print edition from St. Martin’s Press* RATING: 4 HEAT RATING: NONE RECEIVED BY: AprilR, My Book Addiction Reviews/My Book Addiction and More
Another book in a long line of the "Poor Wives of Famous Men" who had no choices in life but to be ruined by their husbands, rather than go on to fulfill their own obvious-to-the-author brilliant destinies. While I understand the differences in eras. women could do one thing no matter the decade - leave him. Particularly if said woman has her own artistic calling. Disappointing. The true story of Scott and Zelda is far more compelling.
I plodded through half of this book before finally giving up. I hate not to finish a book but I made an exception in this case. It is like reading the diary of a really boring person's life. Full of meaningless detail and lacking in depth. Time to move on.
I've not finished reading it...the vocabulary is at a third grade level and the style is too simple to snare my interest.
I was somewhat disappointed with the book. Thought the Paris Wife was better. Would suggest you read the book Zelda. Much better.
I loved every minute of this book. The writing is so beautifully done, you just want to write down little snippets to remember forever.
Absolutely fabulous. I could not put the book down. The author transports you back to a part of history full of excesses. You feel the love and the heartache with each word that F. Scott and Zelda had for each other.
A very good book about the life and times of Zelda, but her struggles reminded me of other women I have known. Her story may be set in a particular time, but it is also universal.
Don't waste your time with this trite book...if you really have an interest in the Fitzgerald's, buy Nancy Mitford's "Zelda" and learn something worthwhile!!!!!
Disappointing. Seems to be a poor copy of "The Paris Wife," which I thought was wonderful.
Powerful Story, Emotionally Driven!In all honesty, I should say before my review that I don't know much about Zelda Fitzgerald. All I really knew about F. Scott Fitzgerald was just from reading some of his work. In all honesty, my love of Midnight in Paris is what made me click request on NetGalley. My enjoyment of this book has nothing to do with accuracy of the historical information. I wasn't sure what to expect in this book. The time period though is such an interesting time. The 20's? It was just interesting time in our history. Prohibition. The first world war. New York. And then the book goes into Paris and other parts of France, Italy, and others. I love books that allow me to explore the world outside the great state of Texas. I really thought that the author did a great job of capturing the blurring world that Scott and Zelda faced. As a story, the book was pretty awesome. The story was powerful, and I felt all these crazy swirling emotions throughout Zelda's fight with her world, her role as a woman, and the wife of a great and troubled writer. Living in the world now, I can't imagine what it must have really been like for women. Many people would be disappointed to find that I am not really a feminist. But I do understand that it's hard to criticize a world in which I didn't live. I really appreciated the character that Zelda represented. Many would really appreciate the relationship between Scott and Zelda. There was a lot of love there, but there was also a bit of toxicity. The relationship was just as bad for them as there was good. Watching them love each other and yet slowly tear each other apart was incredibly heartbreaking to witness through the pages. Seeing the different characters that we have come to recognize through their work in the book was also really interesting. Characters like Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Gerald and Sara Murphy, Ezra Pound, Picasso, and many others fill the book. I really appreciate that kind of thing. I know that my review isn't a super clear image of what the book is. Let me try to summarize. Zelda Fitzgerald was the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a great writer from the 20's. She was also a dancer, an artist, and a writer herself. She would discover so much about who she is throughout the story, but she is also faced with the conflicts such discoveries have with the role that women were to play during that time. As a daughter of the South, Scott promised her a world of adventure. Still at the end of a tumultuous adventure, even in the midst of mental instability made worse by misdiagnosis, she kept a strength and dignity that I respected. The story is powerful and emotional and the writing, to me, was beautiful. It's a great story, and it makes me want to read some biographies and read some of Zelda's work.
Excellent novel, it's fascinating to get into the mind of Zelda Fitzgerald and experience more of her life in Scott's shadow. I definitely recommend it!!!
In her novel Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, Therese Anne Fowler, captivatingly writes about what life was like for the wife of the most famous and most successful writer of the Jazz Age. The author paints Zelda Fitzgerald in a sympathetic light that allows the reader to fully understand what she went through in her marriage to Scott. Not only is the plot and story engaging and interesting, but Fowler writes the novel beautifully with her carefully placed words and artistic sentence structure. She provides a creative outlook and perspective for one of the most classic love stories between the most iconic couple of the Roaring Twenties. Although the novel is fictional and not entirely accurate, the author only does this to accomplish her purpose and to keep her audience interested. Yet, the amount of research and thought that Fowler put into creating this book is still extremely astonishing; Z is a wonderfully crafted novel with a creative and inspiring intent. I would highly recommend this book to anyone who is a fan of Fitzgerald or to anyone who simply enjoys fictional biographies. Z is a great read, and I would most definitely pick it up again to re-experience it.