A review by cewhisenant
This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
3.0
"You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination."
This semester I am doing a self-driven challenge: to read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novels (and a few short story collections if I have time). I read exactly ten pages of Fitzgerald a day, every day. This was my first read of the year and I can say that so far this idea is going well.
I read The Great Gatsby way back in middle school, but I can say this is the first of his books I have truly read. The way the author captures human emotion, both the beautiful and the ugly, is glorious and his word imagery is pretty much unparalleled. I adore the writing.
The main problem with this book was that it was so inconsistent. One minute, I was raptly devouring it, the next, rolling my eyes at yet another philosophical rant. Honestly. One page I was singing the praises of a flawless beauty with a choir belting harmonies and the next I was facepalming so aggressively my friends worried it was a form of self-mutilation. The same went for how I felt about Amory, our main man. I loved him, I hated him, I loved him, I hated him.
Overall, very much so reads like a debut novel: with struggles and promise all wrapped up in a bow.
This semester I am doing a self-driven challenge: to read all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novels (and a few short story collections if I have time). I read exactly ten pages of Fitzgerald a day, every day. This was my first read of the year and I can say that so far this idea is going well.
I read The Great Gatsby way back in middle school, but I can say this is the first of his books I have truly read. The way the author captures human emotion, both the beautiful and the ugly, is glorious and his word imagery is pretty much unparalleled. I adore the writing.
The main problem with this book was that it was so inconsistent. One minute, I was raptly devouring it, the next, rolling my eyes at yet another philosophical rant. Honestly. One page I was singing the praises of a flawless beauty with a choir belting harmonies and the next I was facepalming so aggressively my friends worried it was a form of self-mutilation. The same went for how I felt about Amory, our main man. I loved him, I hated him, I loved him, I hated him.
Overall, very much so reads like a debut novel: with struggles and promise all wrapped up in a bow.