ZELDA FITZGERALD It’s true I hate the stories about the other women, but I love the description of their daily lives, like the scene with twelve raspberry cakes in a French café, or the drunkard asking for the way. A bottle of whiskey on a heavy walnut table, my husband’s hands on a glass. No one’s muses are believable, said the painter whom I loved for twelve weeks and who would rarely touch me. To him, the female body was a plant: it needed to be tended and spoken to, but too much warmth would spoil the matter. In his paintings that I like best, women wander through cities and notice objects. Lanterns. Hats they can’t afford. Little glasses of Pernod. I loved him to hurt the other one, whom I loved more. And so, most of my life, it passes like this: light touching my skin, lying on the floor among my diaries, writing of him–– What did Proust say, months before he passed away?
Tuesday, May 30
Tuesday, May 30
Tuesday, May 30
ZELDA FITZGERALD It’s true I hate the stories about the other women, but I love the description of their daily lives, like the scene with twelve raspberry cakes in a French café, or the drunkard asking for the way. A bottle of whiskey on a heavy walnut table, my husband’s hands on a glass. No one’s muses are believable, said the painter whom I loved for twelve weeks and who would rarely touch me. To him, the female body was a plant: it needed to be tended and spoken to, but too much warmth would spoil the matter. In his paintings that I like best, women wander through cities and notice objects. Lanterns. Hats they can’t afford. Little glasses of Pernod. I loved him to hurt the other one, whom I loved more. And so, most of my life, it passes like this: light touching my skin, lying on the floor among my diaries, writing of him–– What did Proust say, months before he passed away?