Into their circle comes Rosemary Hoyt, a film star, who is instantly attracted to them, but understands little of the dark secrets and hidden corruption that hold them together. As Dick draws closer to Rosemary, he fractures the delicate structure of his marriage and sets both Nicole and himself on to a dangerous path where only the strongest can survive.
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In this exquisite, lyrical novel, Fitzgerald has poured much of the essence of his own life; he has also depicted the age of materialism, shattered idealism and broken dreams. The Penguin English Library - collectable general readers' editions of the best fiction in English, from the eighteenth century to the end of the Second World War.
F Scott Fitzgerald. Scott Fitzgerald is widely considered the poet laureate of the Jazz Age. An unfinished novel, The Last Tycoon, was published posthumously. Scott Fitzgerald was born in in St Paul, Minnesota, and went to Princeton University, which he left in to join the army. He was said to have epitomized the Jazz Age, which he himself defined as 'a generation grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken'. In he married Zelda Sayre.
Their traumatic marriage and her subsequent breakdowns became the leading influence on his writing. Fitzgerald died suddenly in After his death The New York Times said of him that 'He was better than he knew, for in fact and in the literary sense he invented a 'generation'. Our Lists. View all online retailers Find local retailers. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour.
Merchantmen crawled west-ward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an isolated railroad stop, whence one June morning in a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse's Hotel. The mother's face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way. However, one's eye moved on quickly to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening.
Tender Is the Night
Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart.
Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood -- she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her. As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the mother said: "Something tells me we're not going to like this place.
They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact -- moreover, just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations. I'll wire right away for steamer tickets. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel.
When she walked she carried herself like a ballet-dancer, not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back.
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Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated -- it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments, moment by moment, to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive. Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties, into sweaters and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of strange faces, she took off her bathrobe and followed. She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded forward, dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water.
When it was about breast high, she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights, his tufted chest thrown out, his brash navel sucked in, was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle, which went into hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest, and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand. Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four-beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her, pulled her down tenderly out of the heat, seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body.
She turned round and round in it, embracing it, wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath, but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her, and Rosemary, suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her own body, turned on her back and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.
Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Not unpleasantly self-conscious, since there had been a slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation, Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth -- the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous to intrude. Farther up, where the beach was strewn with pebbles and dead sea-weed, sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous to the place.
This change coincided with he and Zelda moving to Hollywood where Fitzgerald took up writing for films and also started an affair with a young actress named Lois Moran. She would appear in the book under the thin guise of Rosemary Hoyt. A few years later, the Fitzgeralds took their travelling party back on the road and resumed their rollicking tour of Europe. Soon after their return, Zelda experienced a nervous breakdown which put further stress on their already tenuous marriage.
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In quick succession, Fitzgerald also lost his father causing him to spiral deeper into alcoholism and despair. Under these circumstances, he set out to complete what he hoped would define his legacy. After significant rewrites, the novel became centered on Dick and Nicole Diver, an affluent married couple who find themselves in a routine of sunbaked ennui in the French Riviera. Dick, a once promising psychologist, has become increasingly listless amidst the gad flying of his well-to-do acquaintances and his unstable wife. Rosemary soon becomes a fixture amongst the Divers and their circle of friends.
Dick is immediately drawn to her fresh perspective and physical beauty. Meanwhile, Nicole starts a flirtation of her own with an adventurous travelling soldier named Tommy Barban. Their marriage understandably becomes more strained and Dick develops a serious drinking problem that results in numerous humiliating incidents.
In particular, an incident in which an intoxicated Dick is assaulted by police officers in Rome is something that actually happened to Scott when he visited there in