Sentences — June 9, 2008, 10:29 am

His Dream of Himself

“It has been said by a celebrated person,” Edmund Wilson writes at the onset of his 1922 essay on F. Scott Fitzgerald, “that to meet F. Scott Fitzgerald is to think of a stupid old woman with whom someone has left a diamond;”

she is extremely proud of the diamond and shows it to everyone who comes by, and everyone is surprised that such an ignorant old woman should possess so valuable a jewel; for in nothing does she appear so inept as in the remarks she makes about the diamond.

fscott Fitzgerald would have been twenty-five at the time Wilson, then only twenty-six himself, composed this remarkable sentence. No matter how often I have read it, its power to sandbag has not diminished. Who starts a critical essay this way? That is to say, who starts an essay that, as it unfolds, will praise its subject’s moral seriousness as a writer, his pure talent, his musicality, his promise (Fitzgerald had yet to publish The Great Gatsby or Tender is the Night)—with a bit of hyperventilate hearsay that has the same texture as the worst gossip, (“It has been said…”)?

Of course, the sentence, dangled like a glittering lure into the busy waters of whichever magazine it appeared in first, was meant to hook a reader. This low feat accomplished, Wilson then barrels forward, performing a technically admirable double reverse as he moves down his argumentative field. First, he distances himself from the baseness he has just disseminated, saying that the anecdote given is misleading (“The person who invented this simile did not know Fitzgerald very well”); that Fitzgerald was not “inept” (“on the contrary, exhilaratingly clever”). This established, that Fitzgerald is not “in the least stupid,” Wilson then pivots and jukes into the opening he has made for himself: “Yet there is a symbolic truth in the description quoted above:”

it is true that Fitzgerald has been left with a jewel which he doesn’t know quite what to do with. For he has been given imagination without intellectual control of it; he has been given the desire for beauty without an aesthetic ideal; and he has been given a gift for expression without very many ideas to express.

Here at last we have a thesis. As to the matter of proving it out, Wilson, characteristically, writes with a certainty of his own certainty that precludes proof, or nearly. Wilson is happy to defend his cruelties but loathe to corroborate, textually, his blessings. Upon writing “This Side of Paradise is one of the most illiterate books of any merit ever published,” he does deal from the bottom of his deck a four card hand of quotations that flush with malaprop. And yet, of Fitzgerald’s “instinct for graceful and vivid prose” we get no more than Wilson’s instinct. The single long quotation in the piece, seven lines, is of Bernard Shaw describing the Irish people, a portrait frame that fits, Wilson assures us, Fitzgerald. Wilson fills that frame, not with proof, but his own portraiture: “F. Scott Fitzgerald is a rather childlike fellow, very much wrapped up in his dream of himself and his projection of it on paper.”

Wilson’s essay is more a dream of Fitzgerald than literary criticism. Read alone, one would think Wilson had all the right instincts as a reader (his generalizations about Fitzgerald the writer jibe with the sense a reader has of him) but all the wrong ones of a critic. Reading Wilson’s collected criticism disproves this piecemeal dismissal, of course, and suggests, as the fortune cookie trumpets, that a smattering of everything is a knowledge of nothing. A smattering of Wilson can produce just such a suspicion.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

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Ashley arrived for her prenatal appointment at Black Hills Obstetrics and Gynecology, in Rapid City, South Dakota, wearing a black zip-up hoodie and Converse sneakers.1 To explain her absence from work that morning — a Tuesday in April 2015 — she had told a co-worker that she was having “female issues.” She was twenty-five years old and eight weeks pregnant. She had been separated from her husband, with whom she had a five-year-old son, for the better part of a year. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant was someone she’d met at the gym, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Ashley found herself hoping that the doctor would discover some kind of fetal defect, so that her decision would be easier. She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. “Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.”

In the exam room, she perched on the table with her feet crossed at the ankles, her blond hair brushing the back of her pink hospital gown. “I don’t know what’s available for me here,” she told her doctor, Katherine Degen, who sat facing her on a stool. “I figured nothing.”

 Some names and identifying details have been changed. 

“Big, fat zero, unfortunately,” Degen said, making a 0 with her fingers. The last doctor who provided abortions in Rapid City retired in 1986, three years before Ashley was born.

The baby was due in November, when Ashley, who was a nurse, hoped to be enrolled in a graduate program to become a nurse practitioner. Getting pregnant as a teenager had forced her to put that dream on hold, but she had thought that she was finally ready; she had even submitted her application shortly before the March 15 deadline. For the first time in her adult life, Ashley felt as if her plans were coming together. Then she missed her period.

It would be too difficult to attend school as a single mother of two, Ashley knew. She had made an appointment for three weeks from now at the nearest abortion clinic, in Billings, Montana, 318 miles away. But just a week and a half ago, her husband had said he wanted to get back together and offered to raise the child as his own. Was it a sign that she was meant to continue the pregnancy? As a rule, Ashley approached her problems with resolve. She was capable and tough; she liked shooting guns and lifting weights. She kept track of her stats and checked off her goals as she achieved them one by one. Yet the dilemma before her had shaken her confidence. She leaned back and turned to watch the ultrasound screen. The black-and-white image danced. A sharp, fast thumping emerged from the machine. As Degen removed the wand, Ashley wiped the corner of her eye.

Photograph (detail) by Balazs Gardi
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"She glanced across the waiting room at a television playing a birth-control ad and laughed darkly. 'Jesus, Lord, it would be so nice if someone just pushed me down a flight of stairs.'"
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