Jan
30th
Sat
30th
It’s cold here and these celibate skies are depressing. There is a flat uncurious frigidity in the wind and it roams about like an exile petulantly storming the dead woods and bushes.
—
Zelda Fitzgerald, in a letter to Scott in December of 1931
Her printed works are no match for the letters she sent to him. The worst part of this book is knowing that his letters to her quite literally died in the fire that claimed her.
