Happy 115th birthday, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Hope its been radiant.
And here's hoping that somewhere you and Zelda were drinking gin on Gatsby's lawn and living it up like it's 1924.
Only about four people showed up for your funeral in 1940. Poor son of a bitch. But I'm telling you, Old Sport, writing like yours only comes around about once in a century. If we're lucky. And in a world where everybody's a writer --
You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.
