As I stepped off the bus in the south of France, I was welcomed by an endless array of sunshine, warmth, and an ocean so blue I had to look twice to make sure it was real. I was exploring the beaches and sites along the Riviera, making my way to Nice, when I came across the infamous Hotel du Cap, which I immediately recognized as the inspiration for Fitzgerald’s Hotel des Etrangers in his novel, Tender is the Night. In between Marseille and the Italian border, it lies along the French Riviera, placed gracefully on the southern tip of the Cap d’Antibes.

It is quite the picturesque sight for travelers, as its Napoleon III style of elegance reaches its arms out to the elite traveler in a warm, welcoming embrace. In fact, to this day, it is one of the most expensive properties in the world. A room during the high season is said to cost over $2,000 a night. The “Cap” refers to the original 1880 building which shelters the hotel’s wealthiest guests with its grandest rooms and sumptuous French character. I would have given anything to stroll along its pristine, vibrant gardens, right through its pearly white doors, and up to a room I imagined was made of pure gold, crowded with waiters ready to serve me. Instead, I trekked to my hole-in-the-wall hostel miles away.

Since the hotel first opened its doors in 1870 as the Villa Soleil, or Sunshine Villa, it has been a sanctuary for the rich and famous. It later joined forces with the closely located Eden Roc tearoom, expanding on its luxuries and allowing the addition of amenities such as its swimming pool overlooking the beach. After all, its location along the beach is a chief aspect of the hotel’s character. Its private terraces offer a panoramic view of the Mediterranean coastline. And, as Fitzgerald mentions in his novel, “The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one.”

Following World War I, two stylish Americans expatriates, Sara and Gerald Murphy, rented the entire complex and invited all their friends. They are said to have been, like the hotel itself, a great inspiration for Fitzgerald’s characters throughout his novel. Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda themselves were some of the hotel’s most frequent guests. They were even held responsible for transforming the location on the French Riviera from merely a winter destination to a summer one as well.

In Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night, Dick and Nicole Diver befriend the young American actress, Rosemary Hoyt, and invite her into their posh circle of friends. Gausse’s Hotel des Etrangers is one of the group’s regular gathering points, where they attend lavish dinners and gossip on the adjacent beach. Fitzgerald is not solely accentuating the wealth of the Divers and their friends, but also the consequences it has on their character and values. For example, the snobbish McKiscos are clearly there to represent the epitome of a couple wrapped up in, and consumed by, the greed and selfishness attributed to wealth and power. His choice to use Gausse’s Hotel des Etrangers as one of the novel’s focal settings is symbolic of this, calling attention to the superfluous lifestyle of the upper class and what appears to be the motto to live by: If you have money, show it.

Other important members of society such as Picasso and the Kennedy family were among some of the guests of the extravagant hotel, and today it continues to serve as lodging for some of society’s most influential celebrities and movie stars, especially during the Cannes Film Festival. Clearly, the Hotel du Cap is not just a place to stay, but an indication of one’s status. This can be expected from a hotel that is not merely considered the best in Europe, but the best in the world.  As an emblem of the rich and infamous, The Hotel du Cap has always been, and will remain, as the young and beautiful Rosemary puts it, “A summer resort for notable and fashionable people.”

Was The Great Gatsby  your introduction to the work of F. Scott Fitzgerald? Did you like it so much that you want to read more by the author, and learn more about his infamous life and legendary friends? A prolific writer born in 1896, writing much of his work during the 1920s, Fitzgerald has gained considerably in popularity since his untimely death in 1940. A severe alcoholic, loving father, terrible party guest, brilliant writer, world traveler, Fitzgerald’s was a complicated life that comes into clearer focus the more you read of his work and the impressions he left on his peers. Below is a list of where to look next to cure your Gatsby hangover.

Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald 1934

The last novel Fitzgerald completed in his lifetime, Tender is the Night is the story of Dick and Nicole Diver, wealthy American expatriates who live in the South of France and cultivate an eclectic circle of friends including movie stars and war heroes. But mental instability abounds in the Diver home, and when the group makes the trip from the Riviera to Paris their façade of control falters, and Fitzgerald perfectly communicates the pain of people who have lost everything. Completed in 1934, Fitzgerald is at the height of his power in Tender is the Night, taking the skills he’d honed in The Great Gatsby and applying them to a much more expansive novel.

Everybody Was So Young, Amanda Vaill, 1999

The nonfiction supplement to Tender is the Night is Amanda Vaill’s brilliant biography, Everybody Was So Young. Vaill follows the American couple Gerald and Sara Murphy from their childhood summers in the Hamptons to their marriage and eventual expatriation to the South of France. Their home, Villa America, on the Cap d’Antibes, was the inspiration for Tender is the Night, where, along with the Fitzgeralds, the guests included Ernest Hemingway, Cole Porter, Archibald and Ada MacLeish, Pablo Picasso, Dorothy Parker, and Sergei Diaghilev. Using an amalgamation of characteristics from the Murphys, as well as from his own marriage, to create Dick and Nicole Diver, Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night captures the incubated, creative environment fostered by the Murphy’s wherever they went. In her own way, Vaill captures that same motif just as vividly. As the center of a group of friends who produced some of the greatest art of the 20^th century, the Murphys’ story is one of breadth and depth, and one that Vaill handles with immense skill.

Flappers and Philosophers, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920

After the success of his first novel, This Side of Paradise, in 1920, Fitzgerald published his first collection of short stories, Flappers and Philosophers, the same year. Many of the themes of Fitzgerald’s later work can be seen in these early stories, such as the carelessness of the wealthy, the adventurous but conniving young protagonist, and excess of every kind. Notable stories in the collection include “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” and “The Ice Palace.”

A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway, 1964

A close friend of Fitzgerald throughout their time living in France, Hemingway recounts the beginning of their friendship in this memoir of his early years in Paris. While the book has a bit of revisionist history in it, the anecdotes about Fitzgerald are highly entertaining. One such recollection details an ill-fated trip Hemingway, at that point an unknown, took with the famous Fitzgerald to retrieve his car from Dijon. Between the rain and the drinking, Fitzgerald ends the trip in a hotel room, overdramatically fearing for his life due to a cold. Another story, of a more sensitive nature, chronicles Fitzgerald’s reservations about his adequacy in the bedroom, which Hemingway remedies with a trip to the Louvre’s classical sculpture exhibit, where he shows the self-critical Fitzgerald that it wasn’t his equipment that was failing him.

Notable Fitzgerald Short Stories:

“The Offshore Pirate,” 1921

The first story in the Flappers and Philosophers collection, “The Offshore Pirate” involves a runaway musician and jewel thief who kidnaps New York’s most promising socialite aboard her yacht anchored off Florida. And, of course, they fall in love.

“Babylon Revisited,” 1931

Written at the end of the Jazz Age, “Babylon Revisited” is about the repercussions of the excess of the 1920’s. Charlie Wales is sober now and living on a substantially tighter budget after the stock market crash of 1929. When he returns to Paris, it has lost its old charm and excitement.

“May Day,” 1920

Fitzgerald’s story “May Day” crosses into novella territory, and is one of his most underappreciated works. It’s the first real crystallization of the Jazz Age in the author’s work, where the socialites are both beautiful and shallow, and the men are distinguished and dissolute. In “May Day,” Fitzgerald’s genius first shows itself in the writer’s ability to hold two contrasting ideas in the same character, in the same mind.

“Winter Dreams,” 1922

Described to his longtime editor Maxwell Perkins, “Winter Dreams” is “a sort of first draft of the Gatsby idea.” A middle class boy in Minnesota, Dexter Green works as a caddy at the local country club, where he aspires to get the attention of the wealthy young women of the club. The son of the second most profitable grocer in the town, he hasn’t a chance. But things appear to be different when Dexter returns home years later after striking it rich in New York City.

One to skip:

The Beautiful and the Damned, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1922

Fitzgerald’s second novel, The Beautiful and the Damned, is a dense book. All of the aspiration and intellectualism of This Side of Paradise is there, but with an older protagonist, it doesn’t ring as true. Fitzgerald relies a bit to heavily on his early penchant for switching back and forth between straight prose and a theatrical structure, and the characters are very wrapped up in what they are going to do, rather than what they are doing in the moment. Whatever shift in Fitzgerald’s material led to the entrepreneurial work ethic of Nick Carraway, Jay Gatsby, Dick Diver, and even Charlie Wales in later books, readers should be thankful for it. The leisurely lifestyle of his first two books is hard to get through, especially in The Beautiful and the Damned, since Anthony Patch is no Amory Blaine.   

So, instead of  picking names out of a hat, or a rousing game of rock, paper, scissors, we decided to try something a little bit different.  Because one review just could not do justice to, or be representative of,  the array of opinions being voiced in our office on any given day, we decided to let multiple contributors give it a go.

Our reviews run the gamut, from the effusive praise of LT founder, Francis McGovern, who may himself be a modern-day Gatsby, to team members Jess and Amanda, who saw the film together, with a movie-going experience (and subsequent reviews) akin to the two curmudgeonly gentlemen heckling The Muppets from a theatre balcony.

So, do we give this newest Gatsby adaptation the “Green Light” (on a scale of 1-5)?  Join us as we dive in to Luhrmann’s manifestation of Gatsby’s world, for better or worse.  And often times, both.

Francis McGovern, Founder, 5 Green Lights

” It’s all for love.”

Amanda Festa, Managing Editor, 3 Green Lights

“Sign me up for the Jay Gatsby action figure.”

I get that Luhrmann is an over-the-top kind of guy.  And, as a genuine fan of much of his work, I have the right to say:  Being known for over-the-top antics does not necessarily mean they will be successful every time. You can’t throw shiny objects at an audience and expect us to overlook everything else.  In a culture where everything has to be franchised and packaged to sell, the riskier move would have been to make a subtle, nuanced Gatsby.  But hey, that’s just my opinion.  Sign me up for the Jay Gatsby action figure and let me know who’s signed on for the sequel.

Ultimately, one has to ask, aside from the opulent parties (the convenient product placement for Moet, the who’s who of hip hop-stacked soundtrack, and cool flapper couture by Prada), should the deeper emotional text of the novel and characters so full of sadness, cynicism, and nostalgic angst be represented in such over-the-top, exaggerated, and commercialized ways? I am undecided, because there are moments throughout the film when I think Leonardo DiCaprio nails it, and then there are times when over-the-top spills into the messy gray area of caricature.  Sometimes this jarring transition occurs in the same scene.  One moment I am wrapped up in the sadness of his illusion, so perfectly captured by a look or subtle glance – and the next,  he dips towards manic, portraying Gatsby a little too cartoonish to do him justice.  Read More.

Jessica Monk, Contributing Editor, 2 Green Lights

“The whole merry-go-round hinges on their dreams”

Baz Luhrmann turned Gatsby’s mansion into a disorienting paradise of parties, cocktails, and jazz, a never-ending dance that revolved around the figure of Gatsby in a swirling mill of rumor, envy, and fantasy. But the problem that monarchs have with the world revolving around them is that, since the whole merry-go-round hinges on their dreams, nobody can – or dares – to tell them the truth, whatever that is. I suppose this is the point of Luhrmann’s maximalism: to depict a world of sycophantic dependents, as numerous as jasmine blossoms and as temporary as champagne bubbles, who will melt away as soon as their monarch comes to grief. While I recognize and applaud this attempt to realize the novel, I am sorry, but I’m going to have to be the one to rip that needle off the gramophone: Gatsby was a flop.

It doesn’t mean that the film isn’t worth seeing: there’s much more to say about the work of a director who is so ambitious that even his mistakes are worth watching. And I’m not talking ambition in the Christopher Nolan sense, where the conceptual is stretched unconvincingly across a studio scaffold – (hint: I’m not a Christopher Nolan fan). I’m talking about Baz Luhrmann’s ambitious way of mobilizing the whole hierarchy of the crew to produce movies maximalist in all aspects of their production: from the all-star soundtrack (Jay-Z, Lana Del Rey) to the costumes (Prada) and the choreography of the parties. Fitzgerald’s sliver of a novella was voluptuously out of control in the hands of Baz Luhrmann; it is abundantly beautiful, it is lost, it is Daisy.  Read More.

Caitlin O’Hara, Editorial Intern, 3.5 Green Lights

“…glittering bass beats to lure us towards the edge.”

In Baz Luhrmann’s The Great Gatsby, shiny cars move like cartoons through the lush greenery of the Eggs; even the natural world is dripping in excess.  His valley of ashes spins with so much hot, dirty dust that if you see the 3D version, as I did, you may be tempted to cough. And Gatsby himself, with his “tan skin” which was “drawn attractively tight” on his face – an unforgettable detail from the book – is noticeably, almost laughably, accurate.

The film is as visually excessive as promised – loud and colorful, set to a backdrop of perfectly-coordinated glitzy costumes, CGI scenery, and hip hop music.  We know what we are getting, to some extent, when we buy a ticket to a Luhrmann film.  Yet, the novel is so heartbreaking — not only in spite of, but because of, the excess — that I wondered whether Luhrmann would succeed in capturing Fitzgerald’s nuance of tragedy within opulence.  Or would it just be one big party, with a twist at the end?  Read More.

Jack Callahan, Editorial Intern, 4 Green Lights

“Owl Eyes is tipsy in the library, just as he should be.”

Baz Luhrmann’s adaptation of The Great Gatsby, the most recent attempt to capture F. Scott Fitzgerald’s roaring account of consecration and corruption on screen, tries too hard to, in the words of Gatsby, “keep going up.”  While Fitzgerald enthusiasts will be pleased that the director adheres closely to the plot, and the average movie-goer will get their $8.50 worth of extravagance, by the time the credits roll, a distinct feeling that, as Fitzgerald put it, “what foul dust” preyed on Gatsby may have preyed on the film as well.

Fitzgerald aficionados will doubtless quibble over small details, like the color of Jordan’s hair or the noticeably warmer friendship between Carraway and Buchanan, but all in all they have little to be angry about. As adaptive as Luhrmann’s film is, it is adapted almost entirely within Fitzgerald’s original framework. Owl Eyes is tipsy in the library, just as he should be, and Jordan Baker is every bit the delightful flirt she was on the page.  Read More.

Ali Pinero, Editorial Intern, 3.5 Green Lights

“A very, very solid attempt, old sport!”

After seeing the latest adaptation of The Great Gatsby, I left the theatre with a mix of emotions. I felt depressed as poor Gatsby lay dead in a red pool of regret and lost hope. I also felt happy and relieved that I didn’t hate Baz Luhrmann’s creation as I had initially predicted I would when I first heard they were making such a film.  I imagined it would be impossible to make a movie accurately depicting the complex characters and emotions found in such an outstanding work of literature. For the most part, however, I found things to applaud throughout the film, with only one or two small Baz kills interrupting my state of joy.  Read more.

Jamie Worcester, Editorial Intern, 4 Green Lights

“A little party never killed nobody.”

For those who have yet to watch the newly released 2013 spin on this beloved novel, be aware of who the director is. Baz Luhrmann, famous for directing such hits as Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge, certainly utilizes his imagination to deliver something incredibly unique to his audiences. Luhrmann’s theatrical approach is indeed ambitious; his rendition relies on over-the-top decadence, A-list stars, and visually stunning effects to appeal to the fans. Although the movie fell short at times, it undoubtedly exceeded my own expectations. My advice would be to go into it with an open mind, taking with you an understanding that this film is the director’s creation and not simply a reproduction.  Read more.

 Literary Traveler Rating:  3.5 Green Lights  

See it for yourself, and let us know which contributor you most agree with — or share your own opinions in the comments section.

Jack Kerouac’s novel, The Dharma Bums, is so full of sweet words and joy that every line I read made me want to jump out of my window, go climb a mountain and pray. Kerouac never gave a ‘goddamn about the mythology and all the names’ of Buddhism, he just sat cross-legged in the Californian wilds, meditating in peace. Which sounded just fine to me, but I was in Seoul, surrounded by over fifty Buddhist temples. This could be my only chance to hear someone talk about Kharma, without wanting to ridicule.

So this January, I went to a city temple named Myogaksa on a two day programme advertised by the Korean Tourism Board. The temple stay promised prayer-bead making and bell striking, meditation and pre-dawn trekking over two days and one night.

Myogaksa temple was a brush of colour in a city choked with grey, hidden up an alley just off Dongmyo street, itself crammed with pizza joints and hundreds of the city’s poor wrapped in duffle coats, hawking second-hand tin pans and hiking boots.

There were twenty three of us that weekend, mostly American college kids on a $12,000 global semester. The programme began at 2.30pm. I had felt fowl that morning because I’d slept in, and I didn’t feel any better as we donned our orange uniforms. An hour later, seated on cushions in the gleaming meditation room, the beautiful, shaved-headed nun, Yeo Yeo, gently led us through the basics of Zen Buddhism.

‘We all have Buddha minds,’ she said. ‘But there are three layers that stop us from reaching that point, stopping us from reaching happiness. The first is greed. Are you greedy?’ she asked.

The room stayed silent.

‘Really? ‘You don’t want to be rich?’

Some of the $12,000 hippie kids nodded their heads, vehement.

She changed tact. ‘Would you rather be rich or poor?’

‘Rich’, we sulked.

‘Second is food. When we waste it, it comes back as water and air pollution.’

‘Third is love. You girls like handsome guys, right? How do you feel when your boyfriend looks at a beautiful girl? Angry? Try not to be. You don’t own anyone, so don’t be attached. And don’t try to change other peoples’ minds. It’s not possible. Concentrate on your own mind.’

‘Next is sleep. In the morning, when your alarm goes off, you all groan and want five more minutes sleep, right?’

We laugh politely.

‘Me too,’ she smiles.

‘But we should be wakeful in this life. Lastly, are you greedy for success?’

Given up on that one, I think.

‘Don’t be attached!’ She says, lifting her robed arms above her head.

‘When you are greedy for money, food, love, sleep and success, it leads to anger. The last layer hiding your Buddhist mind is foolishness.’

Yeo Yeo tells a story.

‘I love Gillete Mach 3. You know why?’ She smiles, stroking her shiny head. ‘See? No cuts. When I first because a nun twenty years ago, I had so many cuts on my head. Meditating in the summer, oh it was agony. Sitting still for hours, while mosquitoes fed on all my cuts. Oh, terrible, they only came to me, and for a long time I couldn’t figure out why. Then I realised I had been killing their brothers and sisters in my bedroom. I went and apologised to the mosquitoes, for hours and hours I bowed to them and said, ‘Thank you, you never killed me’. Really, I was never bitten by a mosquito again.’

Maybe it was a fable, but sitting, listening in that moment, I believed everything she said.

‘Every living thing has a Buddha mind,’ she says. ‘Even the trees. We must be kind, try not to  hurt the leaves. Monks and Nuns don’t like walking up mountains in Spring and Autumn. Do you know why? So many bugs! Bugs under all the leaves on the path, so many Buddha minds! We don’t want to risk standing on them by accident and hurting them.’

I feel exasperated, how can I do anything right?

‘Every breath you take,’ she continues, ‘Kills a hundred cells. Us nuns and monks feel terrible about it. So in Korea, we wear grey, to show our humility. We also do 108 bows each day, to say sorry to the universe for our greedy, angry and foolish thoughts or actions. Are you ready for your prostrations?’

I’m ready, otherwise I’ll fall asleep, just sitting.

We press our palms together, take a deep bow, then sink to our knees and lower our foreheads onto the cushion, to show we are humble, we are nothing. We lift our palms up slowly, raising the universe in our hands to show respect, then thread a bead onto our prayer necklace, and gently stand up. We bow like this 108 times, until our necklace is finished, which would be fine, but half way through, a wooden percussion instrument chimes to say that dinner is ready. I’ve only had one bowl of porridge all day. My ‘I am nothing, I am nothing’ mantra quickly changes to, ‘Don’t be greedy, don’t be greedy’ with exasperation. I chuck my finished necklace on the floor, and race through to the plain canteen next door.

Most of the group are already there, eating soybean soup, purple rice, pickled roots, kimchi pancakes and apple slices. All in total silence. I think of the barbeque restuarants round the temple. They’ll be full of Koreans, shoveling down meat and bottles of Soju, talking and smoking and gesticulating with chopsticks, always my favourite start to a Saturday night. I’m out of my comfort zone here, but somehow at peace. We shuffle out of the canteen and relax upstairs in the study room, lined with religious books, but all I can think of is hot chocolate, cream and gooey fondants. I sneak down to my locker and gobble my emergency chocolate biscuit in a bathroom cubicle, regretful even as I eat.

Meditation before bed. TK, the floppy-haired young monk in-training takes us through the Lotus position, and tells us we will be meditating with the Zen Master tomorrow morning. ‘Breathe through your nose, concentrate on your breathing, and do not make a sound.’ He says. ‘The Zen Master can hear twenty four times better than us, and if you break his meditation you’ll get so much bad Kharma. Also, we have a Buddhist saying. If you turn a door knob during meditation, you’ll go to hell.’ We look around, bemused by his words after such a gentle day.

None of us will go to hell tonight, we sit still through the meditation ten minutes long. The male volunteers leave, while the women lay bedding on the floor and chat, with lights out at midnight.

At 4.30am, the mokta’k sounds. I wake, stuffed up from the overheated floor.  Splashing my face with cold water and buttoning up my blue winter coat, I join our group and trundle up to the roof, where we ring a bell as a young nun chants into the wind. Each chime is said to relieve those in hell from pain, if only for a little while. Red neon crosses illuminate the sky, dozens and dozens of lights from the churches below.

We go back to the warmth of the meditation room, sit on cushions and get ready to pray. The Zen Master comes and sits at one end of the hall. Time to go. Ten seconds in, I realise I can’t breathe through my blocked nose, so I open my mouth like a fish. A minute later, my throat is dry. I try to swallow as quietly as possible. GULP. Sweat. Two minutes in. GULP. Three, four, GULP, GULP. My greedy belly starts to gurgle and groan with hunger. How do I that with my tiny mind? My hair tickles my face, my legs go numb. My throats feels feathery. I can’t cough, I just can’t. Gulp, gulp, gulp, ACHOOOO! The mokta’k rings in the end of the session, phew. The Master leaves, Yeo Yeo stands. ‘Congratulations, you all did so well.’

We climb Naksan moutain just behind the temple. It only takes about ten minutes. Yeo Yeo tells us the Japanese destroyed its granite peak, in order to destroy Seoul’s Feng Shui. In the freezing depths of night, ajummas and ajoshis exercise at the outdoor gym. We rest at a pagoda, where Joseon royalty once sat, and look out to White Tiger mountain, sleeping under the navy sky. For the first time since I came to Korea, I can feel it, I’m in the East.

Back at the temple we have more rice, more kimchi, some beansprouts and an orange slice. We perform a traditional tea ceremony, and at 11am, are let out. I did more that morning than I would normally do in a week.

Two weeks later, and I’ve molested every Buddhist practice Yeo Yeo taught us. My 108 bows have turned into sit ups, my meditations are made less dull by playing Eddie Vedder on repeat, and Yeo Yeo said ‘Don’t be attached,’ so I finished with my boyfriend last week.

In those two weeks, I also won at monopoly for the first time in my life, and my friend gave me a ticket to see Beirut play. Those good things would surely have happened even if I hadn’t gone on the Temple Stay, but because I could pretend it was good Kharma, I appreciated it.

Jack Kerouac wrote, ‘The closer you get to real matter, rock, air, fire and wood, boy, the more spiritual the world is.’

So yesterday, I climbed white tiger mountain which I saw from the temple – granite boulders, snow covered conifers and robins singing into the blue cloudless sky, not a soul the whole way, and then at the top a Shaman. Some wild old woman, chanting and clapping tin pans together, offering bowls of noodles and makgeolli to the spirits. Two fat cats scrambled round the rocks like mountain goats, and I was left ‘feeling happier than in years and years since childhood, I felt deliberate and glad and solitary.’ You can find whatever you want if you take a look around.

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Related Literary Traveler Pieces:  Jack Kerouac and John Steinbeck on the Californian Coast; Coffee and Bob Kaufman, Poet of the People; Beyond Ideology: The Poetry of Separation in South Korea; Jack London’s Korea

Why does Zelda Fitzgerald continue to hold our attention 65 years after her death? Yes, she was beautiful, artistic, volatile, and often in the shadow of one of the greatest writers of the 20^th century, her own husband. She perished catastrophically, a victim of a fire at the mental institution where she was a patient. But there must be something beyond the bare facts of her tragic life that continues to inspire people to get inside her head, to make attempts at figuring her out.  Perhaps it was her talent—real or imagined, tapped or untapped— that is the real source of intrigue. She had a flair—for living, for writing. She insisted on the title The Great Gatsby instead of Scott’s Trimalchio in West Egg. They both died young, victims of extreme disorders, and we wonder — Could Zelda really have ever outshone her husband?

Zelda always claimed she was as talented as the men in her life, and she often fell to pieces trying to prove it. She was swamped by her love for Scott, and speculation abounds that this hindered her from being as prolific as she might have been, had she had the inclination to unglue herself from their toxic relationship.  Some believe her talent was truly limited anyway, and that our fascination with her stems from our basic preoccupation as humans with scandal and gossip and melodrama. Or maybe the answer is simple and kind — appreciate her for who she was, and for what she continues to inspire.

In 2013, Zelda Fitzgerald posthumously visits us in the form of three new novels.  Fortunate perhaps, for those of us who immediately forage for a new book on a particular subject the second we finish the previous one.  But this is not the beginning of Zelda fever.  She lives on in movies, and there have been plays and even a graphic novel dedicated to Zelda alone.  In fact, since 1970, the year Nancy Milford’s biography was published, there have been over 20 books dedicated to this complicated woman.

Who is Zelda?  Her husband’s muse, the model for many of his female characters, an aspiring ballerina for a time, a writer herself, a woman with an uncanny flair for the dramatic? Can this question be answered at all?

Read up, and decide for yourself.

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Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, Therese Ann Fowler, 2013

Call me Zelda, Erika Robuck, 2013

Superzelda: The Graphic Life of Zelda Fitzgerald, Tiziana Lo Porto and Daniele Marotta, 2013

Beautiful Fools: The Last Affair of Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, R. Clifton Spargo, 2013

Save Me the Waltz, Zelda Fitzgerald, edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli, 1932

Zelda Fitzgerald: Her Voice in Paradise, by Sally Cline, 2003

Zelda: A Biography, by Nancy Milford, 1970

The Romantic Egoists: A Pictorial Autobiography from the Scrapbooks of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Matthew Bruccoli, 2003

Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda: the Love Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda Fitzgerald, edited by Cathy W. Barks and Jackson R. Bryer

“It had only to do with what it felt like to be wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way.”  Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

As per usual, I am the last to read the “it” book. I’ve been hearing about Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild for a year now, and finally got it together and put it on hold at the library. I wasn’t disappointed. Strayed is incredibly brave, incredibly candid and incredibly funny — all at the same time.  Reading her memoir, I was immediately on her team, thinking “why shouldn’t a novice hiker take on the notorious Pacific Crest Trail alone?” Strayed certainly does not glamorize her experience, and there are moments when we truly fear for her life, her safety, and her sanity.

The memoir opens with Strayed watching one boot tumble down a ravine, and this scene is expanded upon further in the memoir. Strayed ends up walking a full day in makeshift duck tape sandals. Arguably the biggest of her trials along the trail are her boots, the fact that they are badly fitted (too small) causes her extreme amounts of agony, lost toenails, blisters, you name it. Meanwhile, she battles the elements, animals, and other humans. But all troubles seem to pale in comparison to the excruciating physical pain caused by an ill-fitting pair of hiking boots.

Warning: reading Wild will give you severe hiking fever. Currently living on Long Island, I am virtually powerless to hike, but have started the very preliminary bones of an attempt to hike the Appalachian Trial. As everyone says, to be a successful long distance hiker, one must be prepared. And being prepared, it seems, starts with the boot. In the market for the perfect footwear myself, I dived into the vast world of hiking boots – and came up with two pieces of conclusive information. The first being, lighter is better, and the second being, waterproofing is an absolute must. Being a woman, I focused on women’s boots. Luckily, when it comes to hiking boots, one can throw delusions of fashion out the window before even looking. There are multiple factors to consider in choosing the perfect boot among these being: durability, comfort, support, and traction. Hikers must take into account the terrain, the climate and, of course, the distance intended to cover. For my dream hike on the Appalachian Trail I would purchase a pair of “Lowa Renegade GTX – Mid.”

These boots made an appearance on nearly every search and every review seems to promise that this is it — the perfect pair.  And available in ELEVEN different colors, to boot!  As ‘best uses’ for the Lowa boots, one site suggests, “day-hiking, backpacking [and] just about anything you need a hiking boot for.” It would seem that the one downside of this boot is that the sole wears out quickly. Otherwise, the Lowa Renegade claims to have fantastic toe protection, lightweight, while also being extremely comfortable.  The boots range from $200-$220, but seeing as I would be wearing these boots every day for approximately four months, I think the money would be well spent.  The unique construction of the boot, the “PU Monowrap Frame” is what makes this the boot that will get you to your destination comfortably, boasting support that reaches up on the sides while also coming in laterally. Picturing myself scrambling up and down rocks, the thought of a supported foot becomes increasingly important.  Cheryl Strayed had her boots fitted at REI, and this obviously did not fare well for her, as some salesperson allowed her to leave the premise with the wrong size boot! Whether you are planning a small day hike, an overnight, or a few months of the trail, make sure the shoe fits! Whether my dream of hiking the Appalachian Trail will come true is yet to be determined, but rest assured I would be starting out on the right foot!

“I have moments when I am twisted with enthusiasm or madness or prophecy, like a Greek Oracle on his tripod.” – Vincent van Gogh

Some have suggested these are the words of a madman. Some have opined they are the words of nothing but a peasant.  In my mind, this missive was delivered by a brilliant artist and innovator who was completely aware of his foibles, follies, moments of mania, and especially the hole of his abysmal depression.  I discovered Vincent van Gogh my first year at university, when I enrolled in an Art Survey course.  I had visited many natural history museums across the country, interested in becoming an archaeologist, but I had never been to an art museum.  I found myself fascinated with the Impressionists during that beginner’s course. I was particularly attracted to the work of van Gogh, especially his self-portraits.

The Chicago Art Institute, just a two-hour drive away, owned one of van Gogh’s self-portraits, painted in Paris in the spring of 1887.  During the university’s winter break, I took the train there.  Shyly, I stepped into the room where this particular Vincent resided.  There were numerous Impressionist painters represented in the gallery—Monet, Cezanne, Degas, Lautrec—but I had eyes for none but Vincent.  After a few moments of sitting on the solid wood bench placed in the middle of the room, I realized I was holding my breath.

It was a surprisingly small thing, only 12 x 16 inches. Turned slightly to show the left side of his face—which was actually his right because he was looking into a mirror when he painted it, he wore his typically serious, intense, brow-furrowed countenance.  After I had been sitting a few minutes, and when there was no one near the portrait, I got up and ventured as close as was allowed.

His soul peaked through those mournful eyes with a story to tell, but I didn’t know how to read it.  I needed to see more of the self-portraits.  In the Museum shop, I purchased my first of many books about him: The Complete van Gogh, by Jan Hulsker.  This huge tome contained 2,170 illustrations—every one of Vincent’s artistic works in all mediums, including paintings, drawings, and graphic works, as well as the sketches in his letters. I studied each of the self-portraits carefully.

As my art education expanded, Vincent continued to enthrall me.  On a trip to New York, I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see Self Portrait with Straw Hat, painted in Paris in the winter of 1887.   The eyes in this portrait are fixed on something in the distance.  Something in the future maybe.  I detected a glimmer of hopefulness in this painting.

A couple years later, I visited the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C.   The portrait there was the first painting he completed after suffering a nervous breakdown in the summer of 1889. At the time, he was a voluntary patient at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole in Saint-Rémy, France (link to article).  In a letter he wrote to his brother Theo, Vincent said, “They say—and I am very willing to believe it—that it is difficult to know yourself—but it isn’t easy to paint yourself either.”  An understatement on both counts, I think.

By this time I also owned, among many books about Vincent, Vincent: A Complete Portrait, by Bernard Denvir, which has a small color plate and a neat description devoted to each of the self-portraits. It was still the eyes, the man peering out and begging for understanding, that continued to captivate me.  I read more, learned more about him and the traumas in his life.  What drove Vincent besides his desire to paint?  Was it his desire for the unconditional love of a woman?  But with the choices he made, he set himself up for failure in every relationship he embarked on.  His first big love was his landlady’s daughter, Eugenie Loyer, who was engaged to another boarder.  He tried everything to break up their relationship, but he was not successful.  His sister-in-law, Johanna, wrote in her memoir,

“With this first great sorrow, his character changed.  When he came home for the holidays he was thin, silent, dejected–a different being…he grew more and more silent and depressed, and also more and more religious.”

Another followed this disastrous relationship: Vincent fell in love with his cousin, Kee, who was widowed and had a small son.  She was his first cousin—a liaison prohibited both by law and the Bible.  She was also six years older than he, and summarily rejected him. Vincent believed his love for her helped keep his depression under control, however, and thus allowed him to focus on his painting, so he pursued her long after it was obvious he could not succeed.  After a year of continued rejection, he moved to Den Hague, The Netherlands.

His next serious affair was with Sien.  She was a prostitute: destitute, pregnant, and an alcoholic.  There are many of Vincent’s drawings of Sien in the Hulsker book.  They show her sewing, peeling potatoes, or holding a child.  Her face is angular, and the harshness of her life can be read on its plains.  In 1883 Vincent moved on.  Another disastrous relationship followed.  A love affair with an older woman, Margot Begemann, ended after her attempted suicide and ultimate rejection of him.

There were two more self-portraits residing in the U.S. that I hadn’t seen, but I was ready for a much bigger show. The Netherlands, the birthplace of Vincent van Gogh, was my next destination.  Certainly I saw many other wonderful painting at the Haags Gemeetemuseum in Den Hague, but the self-portrait painted in 1886 is the one etched in my memory. Composed soon after his arrival in Paris, Vincent wears his usual fierce countenance, but he also appears more confident, self-assured, and hopeful, with a shiny strip of jaunty velvet sewn around the edges of his jacket. His painful relationships are behind him, his palette has lightened, and he has met many of the artists who were to become famous Impressionists.

After a few days visiting Den Hague, I took the train with great anticipation to Amsterdam. I checked into my hotel in the Museum quarter near the canal.   Walking along the canal was chimerical. Bicycles everywhere. Long, flat houseboats on the canal. Tall buildings crushed together, leaning dizzily.  Bright tulips, brick walks, green grass, and smiling faces.  As I strolled, I realized I was searching for Vincent’s eyes in the crowds.

The first museum I visited in Amsterdam was the Rijksmuseum.  There, Vincent faces forward in Self Portrait with Grey Felt Hat.  Painted in Paris in the winter of 1886, it is a radiant painting in blue and orange.  He said at this time, “ The more ugly, ill, poor I get, the more I want to take my revenge by producing a brilliant color, well-arranged, resplendent.”  Successful in this, he is still unable to hide the storm that whirls behind the eyes, the eyes that bore into the viewer, sharply blue.

I explored Amsterdam for three days, letting the anticipation rise, before I stood in line on Paulus Potterstraat, waiting to purchase my ticket to the van Gogh Museum.  It was a long line, and while I waited, I contemplated the fact that this whole museum was dedicated to one man: one of the most prolific painters in modern history.

I had learned a lot more about Vincent by this time.  There have been various theories explaining his mental and physical conditions.  His doctors believed he suffered from temporal lobe epilepsy, and they treated it with the herb digitalis, which may have caused yellow halos in his vision.  In order to counteract his seizures and anxiety, Vincent medicated himself with absinthe in great quantities, a drink very popular among artists at this time; unfortunately, thujone, a toxin in absinthe, aggravates epilepsy and manic depression.  Manic depression could be a diagnosis for Vincent’s feverish pace of work—over 2,100 paintings and drawings in his mania—the mania that was complimented on the opposite end of the spectrum by his exhaustion, illness, and dark depression.

What was Vincent’s fascination with self-portraits?  He said, “I deliberately bought a good mirror so that if I lacked a model I could work from my own likeness.”  And also, “My intention is to show that a variety of very different portraits can be made of the same person.”  He certainly did prove that.

With ticket clutched tightly in my hand, I entered the treasure house of one of the most famous painters in the world.  I was still on my quest: what led to the madness behind those eyes?  The eyes that were sometimes perplexed, often electrifying, and always enthralling.

Nine self-portraits were housed there, and my stomach tumbled in anticipation as I entered the museum.  There was a staircase in the central hall that led to all floors.  The atrium high above allowed the sunlight to flood and brighten all of the galleries.  As I traveled the path from one gallery to the next, I was immersed in Vincent.

He was the second Vincent, actually.  The first died at birth, and our Vincent was born a year later.  He was what today is termed a “replacement” child. In van Gogh’s case, the replacement child syndrome was severe. His mother visited the grave of the deceased child with Vincent every Sunday, and she talked about the child who ‘would have been.’ Thus Vincent was the child who couldn’t measure up.  He endured a whole lifetime of competing with an idealized child who never was.  Because it is practically impossible for replacement children to please their parents, they suffer a life of frustration, confused about relationships and what can be expected from those relationships.  This surely had a devastating influence on Vincent’s outlook on life.  He was always searching for love that was never returned. He was always expecting the wrong person to be the right one for him, the answer to all of his longing for the love and approval he didn’t receive from his mother.

In Van Gogh’s Women by Derek Fell, I found more insight.  Dr. L. Becker is quoted in the book:

“Vincent could never be good enough in his own right, and would always sense that something was wrong with him that couldn’t be identified.  There was an impossible longing to know himself, which could never happen to because he was carrying around the ghost of his brother.  He was condemned to be the longed-for other.”

I learned to respect van Gogh for his awareness of his madness and how desperately he wanted to understand it.  When he felt his illness becoming overwhelming, he would check himself into a mental hospital for help in regaining control.  Vincent felt badly about the things he did when he was unable to master his illness, but he realized he had a disease, not an excuse for his extreme behaviors.  In 1889 he wrote a letter to his brother Theo, and said,

“What comforts me a little is that I am beginning to consider madness as a disease like any other and accept the thing as such, whereas during the crises themselves I thought that everything I imagined was real.”

Recently, some years after that first visit to the Chicago Art Institute and my tender footed glimpse of a van Gogh self portrait, I went back.  I am older and have gained some years of experience and sapience. My own struggles have contributed to the shape of my life and my outlook. I’ve seen first hand what the effects of mental illness can have on an individual. I’ve witnessed the destruction wrought by uncontrolled depression and mania.  I’ve attempted to comfort the inconsolable and abandoned.

Vincent was a man bereft; battling more demons than any one mortal deserves to be plagued with.  The weight of his brilliance must have been a heavy burden to carry as well.  I studied that 1887 self-portrait, as I had studied so many of them, and recognized the anguish in his eyes. I read the concentration in his deep brow and the exhaustion riding his cheekbones. I detected the fear tightening his lower lip. I will never be able to grasp the pain that lay behind those eyes, but I can respect it.  That must appease me in my desire to understand him.

*

Literary Traveler Articles by the Author: Coffee and Bob Kaufman, Poet of the People

Related Literary Traveler Pieces: Van Gogh & The Dead in Arles, France; Auvers sur Oise: The Original Impressionist Landscape

By Jill Paris

“Do not go gentle into that good night”
By Dylan Thomas  (1914-1953)

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The aforementioned poem is still considered to be one of Dylan Thomas’ greatest creative achievements, yet for the past few years his granddaughter has been drafting her own masterpiece as patron of Dylan Thomas 100.  Hannah Florence Ellis is working together with coordinators from the Welsh government steering efforts to produce a series of celebratory events to be set around Wales, London, and America.  These actions would expectantly take place before, during, and beyond 2014, coinciding with the centenary year of her beloved grandfather’s birth.  Hannah’s wish for the literary and cultural revelation would allow the world to salute and rediscover Dylan Thomas’ acclaimed poetry, short stories and plays indefinitely.

Daughter of writer and poet Aeronwy Brynhart Thomas (1943-2009), Hannah was born and raised in London on July 19, 1978, and attended Oxford Brookes University where she studied to become a primary school teacher.  Her love and pride for her family’s legacy combined with a passion for education complements this illustration poetically, one might say.

Currently residing in Oxford, England with her husband, Paul and young son, we recently spoke about her grand vision for Dylan Thomas 100 and what it was like growing up connected to the inscrutable artist.

Jill Paris: Were you ever treated differently or teased about your relation to Dylan Thomas?

Hannah Florence Ellis: No.  My peers were not familiar with my grandfather or his work, which is one reason I feel we should introduce his poetry and short stories to younger audiences.  It could then lead them to study his collection further when they get older.

JP: What is the first memory you can recall of your grandfather’s work?

HFE: I was taken to see many, many productions of Under Milk Wood, my grandfather’s famous play for voices.  I often saw my mum recite her father’s poetry and both my parents performed and sung extracts from Under Milk Wood.  This helped bring the writing alive for me, but it was not until now in my thirties, that I have chosen to sit down and read the entire collection.  Why didn’t I earlier?  I love it!  I suspect losing Mum made me realize the importance of knowing about your family and past.

JP: Can you think of an incident where you had to defend the family name?

HFE: Never at school, but once a friend struggled to understand why I’d gotten upset after watching a portrayal of a play about my grandparents where it showed my grandmother, Caitlin, being put in restraints, when my grandfather was ill, and taken to a mental hospital.  From reading certain biographies, I’m lead to believe this is true, though still disturbing to see, especially imagining the impact this surely had on my mum.  The same friend also openly refers to my grandfather as being fat and ugly.  This is difficult as people say I look like him!

JP: Did you grow up with photos of your grandfather smattered around your house?

HFE: Oh yes.  My parents’ living room is filled with photos and paintings and their bookshelves are full of books.  There are Dylan Thomas plays, stories, poems, film scripts, and biographies to name a few.  Some are translated into different languages, too.  Mum spent her life promoting her father, despite her illness.

JP: Did your mother, Aeron, ever tell you secrets about him?

HFE: Mum always said that she felt very close to her father and was very comfortable with him.  She remembers being in his company and feeling so relaxed that they did not have to utter a word to each other.

JP: Dylan Thomas is such an enigmatic figure in the literary world with many contradictory accounts having been reported.  What do you think are the greatest misconceptions about him?

HFE: That he did not understand Welsh and rejected the language.  And that he did not like Wales.  Whatever my grandfather said about Wales he must have loved it.  He wrote most of his work while living in Wales and struggled to write when he was living elsewhere.  The characters found in his writing were influenced by Welsh towns, villages and the image of Welsh culture in such stories as “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”, “The Outing” and “Holiday Memories.”  I think it’s time to celebrate my grandfather’s work, embrace his Welshness, and introduce Wales to the world.  I hope the centenary will be an opportunity to translate his complete work into Welsh.

JP: Can you illustrate your grandfather’s childhood and early influences which helped shape his artistic abilities?

HFE: My grandfather was born at home at 5 Cwmdonkin Drive in Swansea, Wales, on the 27^th of October 1914, in a house his parents had recently bought and owned together, a fact I like very much.  They ensured that Dylan was born in the guest room, or the “best” room, and not their unfinished bedroom.  I am told that just one side of the front door was painted, the one facing the road.  Today, the house has been restored into an Edwardian home and is now open as a museum and a place to stay.  Annie Haden and her husband Geoff have refurbished it beautifully.  Just recently I had the chance to sleep in the room where my grandfather was born.

The Thomas family lived in a middle-class part of Swansea and close to the grammar school where Dylan’s father, my great-grandfather, D.J., was an English teacher.  As my grandfather grew up he was taught in English, despite both his parents being fluent in Welsh.  However, there is much evidence that my grandfather understood and used the Welsh language in his writing.  A book has been commissioned for 2014 with interpretations of his poetry and will examine these findings more closely.

One of his earliest memories was hearing about “The Front” which many of his neighbours never came back from alive.  World War I would have had a big impact on his life and work.  Common themes in his literature are: life, death, creativity and destruction.  He believed he would die young, often telling people that he would not live to be forty!  Sadly, his prediction came true as he died just thirteen days after his thirty-ninth birthday.

Dylan was always trying to please his father.  After looking at books in D.J’s “den” and being read Shakespeare at a very young age, it inspired him to experiment with the techniques of other poets.  As a teenager, Dylan once plagiarized a poem about the war, which he sent to a magazine as his own.

JP: This mischievous trait was apparent in his delightful tale “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.”  Have you ever “snow-balled cats?”

HFE: Never!  I love cats.  I think they are incredibly clever. They outwitted those naughty boys in the story.  We had a wonderful cat called Poppet as I was growing up.  She was a Scottish wild cat and had an extra toe on each paw.  Once, she got into a fight with a fox, and won.

JP: Are you named after the “Auntie Hannah, who got on to the parsnip wine” from the story?

HFE: I was named after my great-grandmother Florence Hannah, Dylan’s mother.  My mum, Aeronwy (pronounced eyeRONwee), or Aeron as she was nicknamed, was very close to her grandmother and would often escape the turmoil of the Boat House (the family home by the sea) in Laugharne and go over to her grandmother’s house known as The Pelican.

Dylan’s stories, such as “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”, are based on the family gatherings of Florence’s brothers and sisters.  Florence died in 1958 but must have had a tough last few years because her husband D.J. died in 1952 and then her daughter Nancy and son Dylan died in 1953.  Then, my mother, her beloved granddaughter, Aeron, moved away.

JP: Laugharne.  What an unusual name.  How is it pronounced?

HFE: If I were to spell it as it sounds: LARN, like the word yarn.

JP: Your mother’s extraordinary memoir My Father’s Places, recalls the chaos and joy of living at the Boat House in Laugharne with her father while he was at the height of his creative powers up until his death.  Describe your childhood.

HFE: I had a very stable, secure and loving upbringing.  My mum was determined to provide my brother Huw and me with a settled home after her disjointed childhood.  After her father’s death when she was ten, they were back on the move again.  It was very different for me as we lived in the same house in London throughout my whole childhood.  In fact, my dad is still living there.  I always remember her being there, collecting me from school and being available to help on school trips.  I have strong memories of church and my mum’s faith and spirituality playing a key role in how she lived.

My dad Trefor’s ‘Welshness’ is something I remember very vividly.  He is a stereotypical Welshman – sings in a Welsh choir and loves rugby.

I was born two months early, weighing just one pound 11 ounces.  Dad says I was smaller than his hand and the old ladies had to knit doll’s clothes to fit me.  I was in an incubator in the special care unit for some time and the nurses would tap the incubator to remind me to breathe.  Mum discovered she had a rare blood disorder when she was pregnant with me.  I’m amazed how normal my childhood was considering her illness.

JP: Enlighten us with a description of your mother’s life as a writer whilst living in the shadow of Dylan Thomas.

HFE: Every morning over her two cups of tea and porridge she would write, and then continue to work on the train during her trips to Wales and in hospital waiting rooms.  She really was a wonderful writer, poet, performer and teacher.  I think her talents were often over shadowed by being the daughter of Dylan Thomas.  Mum spent years writing her memoir.  I think during the creation of her book, it helped her learn more about her parents and understand why they behaved the way they did.  She was still editing the final draft while undergoing chemotherapy for acute Leukemia.

JP: Please describe the recent visit to the Boat House on the three-year anniversary of your mother’s passing.

HFE: I did go to Laugharne the week after and saw the flowers I had sent sitting on the table in the parlour, a selection of summer blooms.  She especially loved yellow roses, bluebells, snowdrops and daffodils.

I visit the Boat House often and sit on the bench we placed there in her memory.  We selected a quote from her book that’s inscribed on it which reads, “The funny thing is I find myself going back again and again.”  Her parents kept returning to Laugharne and are now both buried in the town’s cemetery.  Mum did the same.  She went back again and again, and now my son and I keep going back.

JP: You’ve said your favorite Dylan Thomas poem is “The Force that through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower” because it vividly paints images about the closeness between life and death.  Please share its significance.

HFE: I was drawn to the poem because Mum selected one of its lines to be emblazoned on a plaque at the Boat House after she died.  “How time has ticked a heaven ‘round the star.”  I had just recently experienced life and death so close together with the birth of my son and her passing.  I also have learnt about my grandfather’s relationship with death.  Understanding the poet’s reasons for writing helps me to understand it better.  I’m also amazed that he wrote the first draft of this poem as a teenager.

JP: Your mother’s first memory of the Boat House at the age of six states, “It looked heavenly: a place to explore, to run around, where we would be living forever.  It had verandas and balconies, water-butts, stepped gardens, a large boat shed in the back yard, the harbor and the wall protecting us from the wilds of the friendly estuary beyond.  We had fallen upon paradise.”  Recount some of your first memories there.

HFE: I loved arriving and being allowed to enter without paying.  It made me feel special.  I remember running around the outside, exploring and playing hide and seek with my brother, looking over the estuary and hearing and seeing the birds and fish.  I really enjoyed running up and down the steps in the garden, and eating Welsh cakes as a treat.  They would often have a resident stray cat around and about.  It’s lovely watching my son and nephew doing the same thing.

JP: The sea played a significant part in your grandfather’s work.  Do you have a soft spot for the Welsh coastline?

HFE: Yes, I love the Gower in Swansea.  I have very fond memories of family holidays there.  As typical for Wales, the weather was mixed, but it didn’t seem to stop us from spending hours on the beach, jumping the waves with Mum, swimming, building sandcastles, and exploring the rocks for exotic sea creatures.  One freak year, the sea was full of jellyfish, but they didn’t stop us from going in!

JP: You’ve referred to Brown’s Hotel as the heart of the village of Laugharne.  Explain.

HFE: During my grandfather’s final broadcast for the Welsh Home Service he talked about why people live in Laugharne.  He jokingly said, “…some are born in Laugharne and others migrate there for a number of curious reasons, from places as distant as Tonypandy or even England.”  The Brown’s quickly became his favorite Laugharne pub.  He often sat in the window seat bent over a crossword puzzle with his father D.J, or playing cards with the two generous proprietors Ebie and Ivy William.  My grandfather could often be found sitting in Ivy’s kitchen sharing gossip.  It is quite evident that Under Milk Wood was inspired during those discussions or as he sat observing the locals.

My mum continued the family tradition of returning to Laugharne and popping in for a drink while in town.  She’d tell of the many people who would claim to have known her family while they lived there in the ‘40s and ‘50s.  She remembers one man’s feeble account:  “I can’t say I knew your father, though I did share an elevator with him once.”

The Brown’s has been a significant place for my family for over 70 years.  Both my grandfather and grandmother’s wakes were held in the bar after their respective burials.  Then in 2009, after we had scattered my mum’s ashes at the Boat House, we came here to raise a glass to her, though the pub was in quite a state at the time.  I’m so pleased it’s been restored and the Brown’s can reclaim its former place as the heart of the wonderful village of Laugharne.

JP: If you could design a One Day Visitor’s Guide to Laugharne, what would it entail?

HFE: There’s a lot to do!  As you enter Laugharne you see St Martin’s Church where my grandparents are buried – have a look ‘round and try to find their graves.  Then pop into the Tin Shed just up the road.  It’s a World War II museum with its own air raid shelter.  The guides are most passionate and make it an incredibly personal experience.  Continue up the road to Brown’s Hotel where you can sip a coffee or pint and watch the locals pass by as my grandfather had done.  You can see The Pelican from here, too.  Meander down the road to the castle and look around.  Walk up to the top and you’ll get a stunning view of the estuary.

Pop into one of the cafes and have lunch and then complete the Birthday Walk.  Check out Eros on Gosport Street, Seaview which is now a hotel, and Castle house, places my grandparents either lived or stayed, and then stroll down Dylan’s walk towards the Boat House past the writing shed.  Finish up with a pot of tea and Welsh cakes in Caitlin’s kitchen.  Someday, I hope to create a family-friendly tour called “A Day in the Life of Mably” the Thomas family dog!

JP: Your son might be the impetus of that tour!  Talk about being a mother to 3-year old Charlie.

HFE: I love being a mum to Charlie.  He’s bright as a button.  We’d chosen the name Oliver for a boy, but when he was born, it didn’t suit him as the first thing he did was to wee all over the pediatrician!  We decided “Cheeky Charlie” was far more appropriate.

It’s been tough at times, as Mum died just three weeks before Charlie’s birth.  I also had a very, very, very traumatic labour.  Dad was desperate to scatter Mum’s ashes, but I didn’t feel fully ready, though I respected his need to do it.  We went to Laugharne when Charlie was just three weeks old.  I also wanted to promote Mum’s book and travelled about when he was six weeks old.  Not easy.  The car was packed to the ceiling.  I regret not being able to publicize Mum’s book more.  In the last year, I’ve been working very hard being both a full-time mum and promoting the upcoming centenary of my grandfather’s birth.

JP: Have you read Charlie any Dylan Thomas stories yet?

HFE: Not yet, but fully intend to.  Our flat is full of books because I love reading and my husband is a history lecturer and researcher.  The “story before bedtime” is our favourite time of the day.

JP: You remarked that teachers are “quite scared” to teach the poetry of Dylan Thomas.  Why do you suppose that is and what do you think would help the problem?

I think teachers are fearful because they think he is difficult to understand, but I envision his work being used very effectively in schools.  His characters and the places he describes could be brought to life through drama, art and music.  I feel the way forward is to show teachers ways to introduce his work.  For example, look at “The Hunchback in the Park” and try and find out who that character was and why he was in that locale, or perhaps use one of the his surreal stories, such as “The Vest” and use it as an opener to inspire children to create their own ideas.

JP: For those interested to learn more about Dylan Thomas prior to the centenary, which book do you recommend?

HFE: Andrew Lycett’s A New Life is the most recent biography and will hopefully be turned into an e-book.  (I’m working on it!)

JP: If you could ask your grandfather one question, what would it be?

HFE: “Who was the real Dylan Thomas?”

The End

Hannah’s dream for continued exploration of her grandfather’s work could very well answer her own question.  In addition to honoring his memory, she hopes the Dylan Thomas 100 programs would help raise the author’s profile throughout schools, help support literary efforts, and establish creative reading, writing and literacy projects.  Some of her ideas involve designing a range of published Dylan Thomas teacher resources to include “child friendly” texts of her grandfather’s short stories.  Other thoughts would feature performances at Dylan Thomas’ significant places such as 5 Cwmdonkin Drive, The Boat House and the New Quay trail.

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About the Author: Jill Paris is the author of the ebook, Life is Like a Walking Safari.

Additional Reading/Information: Hannah’s vision would surely present her grandfather’s achievements in new and fun ways, but until festivities commence, you can peruse the accessible website for timeline updates on all things Dylan Thomas.

Related Literary Traveler Pieces: Champagne & Sheep: A Poetic Tour of Wales; The Legacy of Dylan Thomas in Wales; Hemingway’s Happy Cats.

Literary Traveler is excited to announce that we are turning our much-loved website into a series for television. We are passionate about the stories we tell, of authors’ lives and the places that inspire them.

Literary Traveler, the series, will be a new thirty-minute program that follows in the footsteps of classic and modern writers, to explore the inspiring places connected to literature’s most popular and acclaimed works, and to make meaning of the lives, struggles and triumphs of famous authors.

These unique stories are presented by visiting places important to the writer, and by taking unique journeys related to that writer’s life, revealing their experiences and inspirations. Each episode will include interviews with experts, popular writers and academic scholars on the writers profiled. We’ll highlight what the journey and places meant for each writer and discuss how viewers can visit locations featured in the program. We’ll also stop to explore interesting places along the way, immersing ourselves in the culture of a particular time and place, as we traverse the challenges the writers faced on their varied paths to success.

Currently we are producing a pilot episode.  We will go in search of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. An iconic novel of the Jazz Age, with settings that range from Louisville, to Long Island, to NYC, we believe that Gatsby provides the perfect entry point for our literary series.

In order to get this venture off the ground, we are taking the project to Kickstarter and asking our fellow literary travelers to help us finance this project. We are excited to launch our Kickstarter project this May, coincidentally corresponding with Baz Luhrmann’s film adaptation of Fitzgerald’s classic. We want to take a deeper look behind this work and others, and at the places and experiences that contribute to each author’s journey.

Stay tuned for more on our Kickstarter and Literary Traveler, the series. Please join our mailing list to stay apprised of updates. And, as always, thank you for your support!

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Check out a preview for a glimpse of what’s to come!

Literary Traveler was excited to take part in World Book Night – an annual event that boasts bookish “givers” hitting the streets to share literature with light and non-readers.  Its mission is to spread the literary love far and wide, promoting reading in adults throughout the world. 2012 saw nearly 80,000 people in four countries giving out a total of over 2.5 million free books. This year, the United States alone had 25,000 givers across the country spreading literary love to their individual communities.

It started in the UK in 2011 and expanded to the US last year.  Publishers print the books for free and authors forgo royalties to produce the paperback copies that will make their way into the hands of lucky individuals.  Book titles range from classic literary works, to young adult novels, to non-fiction and memoir – providing something for every taste.

We were tempted by many of the 30 titles chosen by a panel of librarians and booksellers, but finally decided on Willa Cather’s classic My Antonia.  We began our World Book Night journey with twenty copies of the book and ventured out into a pleasant, but overcast afternoon in Davis Square, Somerville, a short jaunt from our Literary Traveler offices.

The Davis Square MBTA station was ripe with passersby, but it seemed many of them were on a mission to make a train.  While we think a good book would make waiting an extra ten minutes for the next train an even trade, we felt a little intimidated by some of the fast moving commuters.  We spoke with a few people loitering outside the station, offering up copies of the Cather classic.  Some were hesitant to take them, raising an eyebrow at us, as if to ask, “What’s the catch?”  Once we explained the concept of World Book Night, they were happy to take a copy of the book.  We also stopped and chatted with the amiable gentleman giving out copies of the Metro newspaper.  Even he, giving out free goods himself, was skeptical of taking the free paperback.

We thought we had found success as we tried to give books to a friendly looking pair entering the station as we exited, but it was a WBN duel and we all drew simultaneously, laughing at the realization that we had come upon two more WBN givers.  As much as we wished we could take the copy of The Lightning Thief  that they were offering, we unfortunately did not fit the “light reader” demographic.

Our next stop was Johnny D’s in Davis Square.  It is a local music joint with a friendly staff, a homey, comfortable vibe and, of course, great tunes.  We chatted with the staff as they set up for the dinner shift, giving out a couple copies in the process.  They loved the idea of World Book Night, and were happy to talk with us about books and the mission of WBN.

We also had the pleasure of speaking with a few patrons, most notably a spitfire named Betty, who claimed her good health in her ripe old age was due to a lifetime of swimming. (We took mental notes on this one!)  Betty, upon seeing the Willa Cather freebie exclaimed “She’s famous, I’ve heard of this. It’s a classic.”  She assured us that although this was the first paperback she’s had in a while– she sticks to audio books mostly these days–that she could still read perfectly well.  This woman had an incredibly vibrant spirit, which reminded us a lot of Antonia.  A woman nearby, noticing our exchange with Betty, asked hesitantly, “Oh, are you giving out books?” Gleeful that someone was excited about this project enough to initiate conversation with us, we happily headed her way with a  fresh copy in hand. A North Dakota native, our new acquaintance said that she had always wanted to read My Antonia. This alone made World Book Night a success for us.

Our last stop of the evening found us venturing to Sunset Grill & Tap in Allston, MA.  With ten copies of My Antonia to go, we were on a mission. With 112 taps and 380 bottled microbrews and imports, Sunset Grill & Tap is renowned for its beer selection.  While we enjoy the variety that they offer, we had our bibliophilic hearts set on one in particular: Dogfish Head Brewery’s hard-to-find brew, My Antonia.  Named for the Cather novel, we had to try this rarity in honor of our World Book Night selection and see if it lived up to its namesake.

We gave a copy of the book to bartender Liz, and she shared her knowledge of the beer and hypothesized with us on why Dogfish Head may have chosen to name it for Cather’s 1918 novel.

You see, My Antonia, the beer, is what is called an Imperial Pilsner. The term “Imperial” originally referred to the Russian Imperial Stout. Exported from England, this double or triple hopped libation was said to be highly popular with the Russian Imperial Court. Like so many other things, the term has been adopted and Americanized and now its use generally indicates that the hops and malts in a given brew are doubled or tripled, and it will be a significantly stronger beer. The name “Pilsner” comes from the city Pilsen, located in the western part of Bohemia, a large region of the Czech Republic.

“Aha!,” we thought.  So that’s where the name comes from! Antonia, Willa Cather’s character, comes to America as an immigrant from Bohemia. It could be coincidence that the Dogfish Head Pilsner is an Imperial version, but we like to think it had a little something to do with the character’s bold, enduring spirit.

We toasted to My Antonia with a gentleman named Dave, who said he enjoyed reading classics, and the three of us were quickly won over by Antonia’s smooth, hoppy flavor with hints of citrusy sweetness and a bitter finish.

After giving our last copies to a few patrons and servers, we fittingly ended the day with one last toast to Cather’s classic, in hopes that the twenty copies we put out into the world today are well read, much loved, and passed along for other readers to do enjoy.  Until World Book Night 2014!

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Were you a World Book Night “Giver” this year?  Tell us about your experience in the comments section.