The Rainy Season Begins

In California, it either rains or doesn't rain. The land was parched all summer as the sun matured the thirsty grapes, bestowing complex flavors in exchange for all their pains. Now it is winter, and the barren vines drink their fill.

I finished reading The Last Tycoon--the part the Fitzgerald actually wrote, anyway. The editors have created a summary of what they think Fitzgerald had in mind for the end of the novel, but I'm actually considering skipping it. I'm usually the sort of person who demands closure, who will not rest until knowing "how the story ends;" however, the writing style is strikingly different than Fitzgerald's , and I could never be sure if the artificially constructed ending is actually what Fitzgerald himself would have written. After all, who can emulate the man who wrote The Great Gatsby, or (one of my favorites) Tender is the Night? I'll just have to be satisfied with these rough sketches of the polished portrait he intended to paint.

The strongest guard is placed at the gateway to nothing. . . Maybe because the condition of emptiness is too shameful to be divulged. (Fitzgerald. Tender is the Night.)