The American reading public seems to reduce `classic authors' to one-hit wonders: The Stranger, Catcher in the Rye, Vanity Fair, Frankenstein, Catch-22, Oedipus the King, etc. One great work seems to exhaust us and we move on. The only real exceptions are situations in which the author has two great works of moral equivalency: Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-four, Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Iliad and The Odyssey.
A victim of the one-book limit on our memories is The Beautiful and Damned. No, it's not as good as The Great Gatsby. But then again -- to paraphrase Joseph Heller -- neither is any other American novel. If it weren't for Jay Gatsby, however, this other work by F. Scott Fitzgerald would likely get suggested more often as `the Great American Novel'.
I was blown away by it. The novel is divided into roughly three parts, following the third decade of life of a useless Harvard alum living in New York City named Anthony Comstock Patch. The first period is youthful exuberance. It reads like it was written by a kid who woke up one day being after being anointed the Chosen One by the gods of literature. It's got this `Wow, I can write beautiful prose about anything!' euphoria to it. The prose dazzles and sparkles as it careens from one pointless bit to another as it lampoons the East Coast elite. It shifts tenses for no reason, abruptly goes into the format of a play for couple of pages at a stretch and generally dances its way through the nonadventures of several extremely wealthy young men. The words on the page are relentless brilliant. Even getting up to leave is memorable: `Anthony arose and punched himself into his overcoat. . .'
This first section is hilarious. Typically, when I discover something from before WWII that was meant to be humorous, I cringe to myself because it's so not funny. The opening of this book, after a slightly dry description of Anthony Patch's familial background, satirizes the wealthy, their pretensions, their sense of entitlement, their superiority, with unerring accuracy. It's laugh-out-loud funny but never mean-spirited.
I hate spoilers. Suffice to say that the second and third sections get uglier as relationships get more serious. What we forgive in the young we find more disappointing in people as they age. (A Peter Pan with a puffy-eyed hangover at thirty is not a pretty sight.) The prose loses little momentum as the story flirts with disaster.
In addition to the writing itself, what really struck me was how Fitzgerald could create a sense of empathy for such appalling characters. If Anthony Patch was a real person, he'd be the poster boy for Marxism. Yet Fitzgerald can get us to care about him and his ilk, people who are in truth little more than lazy, absentmindedly racist, decidedly misogynistic alcoholic snobs. (Indeed, this novel could be read as the parable about the consequences of misogyny on men.) If someone told me that it would be possible to write a novel in which you feel for a character who jokes about kicking a kitten -- we're left hoping it was a joke -- I would have said it was impossible, but there you have it.
The novel also makes the time period covered, from shortly before WWI to the Roaring Twenties, come vividly alive. Anthony Patch becomes the embodiment of America, starting in innocence, becoming disillusioned with war and ending in the boozy disillusionment of Prohibition. (And no, that's not really a spoiler.) It's not simply Anthony: the novel is animated by consumer products of the period, suggests a critique of suburbia forty years head of its time and is filled with fascination with those new technologies, the car and the feature-length film.
In short, The Beautiful and Damned probably offers more per page than just about any other novel you might read. Except The Great Gatsby.
This review is based on an out of print hardback from the library, not this particular edition.Get more detail about
The Beautiful and Damned.
