“Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald”, by Therese Anne Fowler

 

375 pages, St. Martin’s Press, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1250028655

Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was more than just the wife of Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald; she was also a novelist in her own right, a painter, a playwright, a dancer and Southern socialite who, sadly, died before her time in a fire in a hospital, widowed and all but forgotten, after living in a series of sanatoriums and undergoing a decade worth of electroshock therapy and insulin shock treatments. Sad, tragic and pathetic. And so we owe Therese Anne Fowler a debt of gratitude for reviving this most interesting of women in Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald and letting her live and frolic once more – if only in our imaginations.

The novel begins when 17-year-old Zelda meets the dashing young Army officer F. Scott Fitzgerald and continues on to document their lives together until their ultimate, tragic ends, all told from Zelda’s point of view. Not being at all familiar with the life of Zelda, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of this telling, only that Fowler follows her subject as she traipsed all over America and Europe, as she and Scott (and their daughter, Scottie) enjoyed the privileges of being young and relatively well-off in the Roaring 20s. One wonders at Fitzgerald’s view of this time, seeing as he and his bride seemed to enjoy it so much.

While their lives of the Fitzgeralds are documented and brought back to life for us, I have to say that they and their world remained flat throughout; I mean, Zelda’s voice was never in stereo in Fowler’s telling, only ever in mono, a strange situation for this opinionated and passionate woman. New York, Paris, the American South and even Minnesota never came alive in this telling, as all the colors Fowler paints in are faded pastels rather than the vibrant oils a woman like Zelda deserves. Not badly written, as the book moves along at a brisk and interesting pace, but I couldn’t help but feel that there were depths there being left unexplored.

And Zelda herself never really seems fully realized. While her friends wish her to latch on to the then-nascent feminist cause she never actually does, as she was then enjoying all the freedoms her predecessors could only dream of (this in spite of the fact that many of her stories were published under her husband’s name). But her works – novels, short stories, paintings, etc. – are never named or described, and her accomplishments are mentioned – by herself, mind you – only in passing. Thus, even in a novel in which Zelda Fitzgerald is supposed to be the main protagonist, she plays second fiddle to her more famous husband. Strange…and disappointing.

I had circled this novel for several months at the Fraser Public Library before adding it to the Books on Tap book club schedule; having finished it, I wonder if the other participants will like it more or less than I did (whenever a book I have chosen falls flat I always have a feeling of guilt, like I let them down). Maybe they’ll have a better opinion than I, but overall while Z was an enlightening look into the lives of a golden couple of the Lost Generation, it was an outsider’s view rather than an insider’s. Zelda guides us through her life before-and-after Scott, but she never truly comes alive in Fowler’s telling.

But I have to say that Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald has at least kindled my interest in this fascinating if maddening couple, so much so that I think I will seek out a biographies of Zelda and F. Scott, and read their many, storied works. So all was not lost reading Fowler’s flawed if still interesting work – so there’s that.