Nobody has ever measured, not even poets,
how much the heart can hold.
Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald
Born in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1900, Zelda Fitzgerald died on March 10, 1949, when she was trapped by a fire at a mental hospital in Asheville, North Carolina. Her creativity stifled, her independent personality punished, and her illnesses misdiagnosed–the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald is probably one of the least understood and most fascinating women of the previous century.
Creative people will create in the face of enormous obstacles, but how wonderful it would be to live in a world–and even in families–where creativity is valued, respected, and nurtured. I marvel at the jealousies, fears, and resentments that led Scott and Zelda to tear each other down rather than nourish each other’s talents.
It was good to sit on the roof of the wonderful Hotel Monteleone, seventeen stories above New Orleans, and ponder writing and relationships with Marika a couple of weeks ago. The hotel is one of only three in the United States that has been designated a literary landmark because it has either housed famous writers or been written about in their works. These writers include Ernest Hemingway, Truman Capote, Rebecca Wells, Walker Percy, William Faulkner, Sherwood Anderson, Tennessee Williams, Richard Ford, and Eudora Welty.
The day had been gray and cold, but just before Marika arrived, the sun pushed its way out of the clouds. We were able to enjoy sitting next to the heated pool on the roof for a few hours before the wind finally drove us inside. (Visitors be warned; the plugs on the roof don’t work, so there’s no power source for your laptops.)
I’ve put photos behind the cut–I hope they offer a bit of spring to my snow-weary friends.
where we can see heaven much better
