The Royal Game – Stefan Zweig (German) 

In the slim edition I have this novella is the first of three. Most of Game is told in a monologue by a man who, while imprisoned, becomes obsessed with chess. He begins playing games in his mind, in which he is both black and white; a kind of split personality develops. But how many times can you go over the psychological effects of isolation? (In this case the monologue lasts for twenty-seven pages.) When freed he’s on a ship bound for Buenos Aires, and a match between him and a grandmaster takes place. Another problem arises: how do you make a game of chess interesting? Zweig concentrates on the differing personalities of the two players. A fair try. But if this novel had been longer than seventy-one pages, I probably would have bailed out. I think the problem lies in a stagnant plot. Maybe, with a more open and lively subject matter, Zweig would fare better. That said, his stilted manner of writing doesn’t invite further reading.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Life in Letters

And what a miserable life it was. It started out well: when he was twenty-four This Side of Paradise was published (it was an immediate success) and two weeks later he married Zelda. He suddenly had plenty of money, and he and Zelda embarked on a whirlwind of extravagant living. But things turned sour pretty quickly. Fitzgerald’s next two novels sold poorly (including The Great Gatsby), and he relied on short stories – many of them hack work – for an income. The relationship with Zelda deteriorated: her emotional instability grew worse, his drinking grew worse (apparently he was a mean, destructive drunk). His health also grew worse (besides the effects of alcoholism, he had TB and heart problems). Zelda began an existence in and out of mental hospitals. Their one child would grow up in boarding schools. In Hollywood – he spent time there working (with little success) on scripts – Scott had a relationship with Sheila Graham, but that was sabotaged by his drinking. His reputation as a serious writer tanked, and he died from a heart attack at age forty-four; eight years later Zelda would die in a fire at Highland Hospital. These two mismatched people, who shouldn’t have met one another – much less married – are buried together in the same plot. This bio I’ve provided is more interesting then the book. Never, in a collection of letters, have I done so much skimming (or, in this case, skipping pages). Maybe a third of the book is taken up by the subject of his writing – either the creation of the novels or the financial side – and this is just plain boring. Not helping matters, FSF was a compulsive type; he would be so thorough in a discussion (even numbering his points) that he wore me out. And, since he didn’t write when he was drunk, that side of him doesn’t emerge (though he often apologized in letters for his behavior). Still, I formed some impressions of the man. He had his good points – some very good. He helped many writers get noticed (including Hemingway), and, when he had money, he lent it to those in need. Despite the fact that he wrote vindictive letters to Zelda at one point in his life, he always felt concern for her. He cared intensely about his writing, yet, to make money, he did work that he knew had no literary value; he did it not so he could live in luxury but to pay for his daughter’s schooling and for Zelda’s treatment (both expensive). Though he was an absentee father, he wrote long letters to Scottie (too long!) in which he instructed her on life. The last letter in the book is one written to her six days before his death, and I’ll end this review with a quote from it: “For the rest I am still in bed – this time the result of twenty five years of cigarettes. You have got two beautiful bad examples of parents. Just do everything we didn’t do and you will be perfectly safe. But be sweet to your mother at Xmas . . .”

Selected Letters of William Faulkner

There are problems with this collection similar to the ones found in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s. Why do editors think that a reader (who’s not a scholar) is interested in detailed descriptions of the creation of novels? Even more questionable are the many pages devoted to contracts, advances, etc. – shop talk. Take those two elements away and this book shrinks by at least half. And it does, in actuality, shrink – I skipped all that stuff. As for the rest, there was not much of interest for enquiring minds. Though Faulkner writes clearly and simply – there’s none of the dense convolutions of his fiction – he was reticent about personal matters. Added to that, the editor, Joseph Blotner, states that he showed respect for Faulkner’s desire for privacy by omitting “some intimate passages.” Well, if that’s his compunction – to show respect by shielding his subject – maybe he and Faulkner’s daughter (who collaborated on this book) should never have embarked on the project. Because intimate passages are what readers want. Prominent in these letters are concerns about money. One of the leading novelists of the twentieth century – in his late forties, with almost all his major works behind him – was often broke; in one letter to his agent he writes that he “did not have $15.00 to pay electricity bill.” He, like FSF, had to reluctantly turn to Hollywood and script writing to keep the lights on. As for personal matters, some do leak out, and conclusions can be reached by evaluating omissions. There are no affectionate letters to his wife, but a few that show dissatisfaction with family life; in one he states that “I am either not brave enough or not scoundrel enough to take my hat and walk out.” His drinking problem emerges – he did a lot of falling off horses in his later years. He carried on a correspondence with – and helped, which was unusual for him – a young writer named Joan Williams (was she pretty?). In the letters to her he dispenses a lot of talk about the “anguish of the artist.” What else? He has almost nothing to say about his fellow writers. He could be funny. I guess that’s about it.

Since I was suspicious about the relationship with Ms. Williams, I did a little research. She and Faulkner – who was thirty years older than her – indeed had an affair. She even wrote a fictionalized account of it. And Mr. Blotner wrote a biography about Faulkner in which he delves into the “intimate” matters he excluded from the letters. I guess the time had arrived for tell-alls. Faulkner would not be happy; he constantly stated that he wanted to be remembered only in his books. But lack of privacy is the price one pays for fame. All he can do now is turn in his grave.