Comfort Readings for COVID19 [1 of X]
A LETTER FROM F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, QUARANTINED IN 1920 IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE DURING THE SPANISH INFLUENZA OUTBREAK
[Note] You’re probably getting this kind email from me for the first time. In this time of shut-ins and shut-downs I thought it would be nice to connect with my friends and family through written word (and sometimes video). There will be several posts over the comes days and weeks. If you don’t want to get posts from me just unsubscribe. Also - WRITE BACK, either via email or in the comments section below. I’d love to hear from you. -Peter Corbett
[This is a Series: Post 1, Post 2, Post 3, Post 4, Post 5, Post 6, Post 7, Post 8, Post 9, Post 10]
Dearest Rosemary,
It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that, he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources. The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us. You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.
Faithfully Yours,
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Source: This is a parody by Nick Farriella of McSweeney’s