“I wrote you a month ago but it seemed a silly letter. I’ve had a strange two months trying to pull together the fragments of a lost year and I wonder if life will ever again make much sense being sober and comparatively ascetic should do it but it hasn’t. I am still unhappy and worried— the very worst conditions for writing —and can understand how Europeans felt after the years of war that left them accidentally alive.

I wonder if you are happier— somehow you seemed so when I saw you, even to my alcoholic eye. God, I hope so— it was sad to see anyone so young and with so much stuff in such a state of depression. I wish I could have helped you as you tried to help me.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, April 23, 1937.