F. Scott Fitzgerald was a pretty smart guy, for a writer. I’ve no clue what that sentence is supposed to mean but, then again, I’m a writer. That’s my excuse. Mathematicians are concentric. Writers are eccentric. And never the twain shall meet. (Wasn’t that guy a writer too?)
One epigram FSF left us, that I am trying my unlevel best to disprove, is, “There are no second acts in American lives.” Is that so? Well, F., you might like to know I just completed a virtually sold-out run in a community theater production of Neil Simon’s “The Prisoner of Second Avenue,” in which my character, Harry Edison, appears only in the second act. So there. Put that in your corn cob pipe and smoke it.