The Ghost of F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Haunting Photo May Show Socialite Who Inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’
See details. Item location:. Jessup, Maryland, United States. Ships to:. This amount is subject to change until you make payment. For additional information, see the Global Shipping Program terms and conditions - opens in a new window or tab This amount includes applicable customs duties, taxes, brokerage and other fees. For additional information, see the Global Shipping Program terms and conditions - opens in a new window or tab. Special financing available. Burne Holiday was so evidently developing — and Amory had considered that he was doing the same.
He had fallen into a deep cynicism over what had crossed his path, plotted the imperfectability of man and read Shaw and Chesterton enough to keep his mind from the edges of decadence — now suddenly all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed stale and futile — a petty consummation of himself.
He was not even a Catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that he had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical Catholicism whose prophet was Chesterton, whose claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as Huysmans and Bourget, whose American sponsor was Ralph Adams Cram, with his adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals — a Catholicism which Amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or sacrifice.
Being Burne was suddenly so much realler than being clever. Yet he sighed. Dean Hollister had been heard by a large group arguing with a taxi-driver, who had driven him from the junction. Bought and Paid for. It took two expert mechanics half a day to dissemble it into its minutest parts and remove it, which only goes to prove the rare energy of sophomore humor under efficient leadership.
A Historical Guide to F. Scott Fitzgerald
Then again, that very fall, Burne had caused a sensation. A certain Phyllis Styles, an intercollegiate prom-trotter, had failed to get her yearly invitation to the Harvard-Princeton game.
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He was unversed in the arts of Phyllis, and was sure that this was merely a vapid form of kidding. Before an hour had passed he knew that he was indeed involved.
Phyllis had pinned him down and served him up, informed him the train she was arriving by, and depressed him thoroughly. Aside from loathing Phyllis, he had particularly wanted to stag that game and entertain some Harvard friends. The blithesome Phyllis bore her twenty-five summers gayly from the train, but on the platform a ghastly sight met her eyes.
There were Burne and Fred Sloane arrayed to the last dot like the lurid figures on college posters. They had bought flaring suits with huge peg-top trousers and gigantic padded shoulders.
On their heads were rakish college hats, pinned up in front and sporting bright orange-and-black bands, while from their celluloid collars blossomed flaming orange ties. On a clanking chain they led a large, angry tom-cat, painted to represent a tiger. She was vociferously greeted and escorted enthusiastically across the campus, followed by half a hundred village urchins — to the stifled laughter of hundreds of alumni and visitors, half of whom had no idea that this was a practical joke, but thought that Burne and Fred were two varsity sports showing their girl a collegiate time.
She tried to walk a little ahead, she tried to walk a little behind — but they stayed close, that there should be no doubt whom she was with, talking in loud voices of their friends on the football team, until she could almost hear her acquaintances whispering:. That had been Burne, dynamically humorous, fundamentally serious. From that root had blossomed the energy that he was now trying to orient with progress. So the weeks passed and March came and the clay feet that Amory looked for failed to appear.
About a hundred juniors and seniors resigned from their clubs in a final fury of righteousness, and the clubs in helplessness turned upon Burne their finest weapon: ridicule. Every one who knew him liked him — but what he stood for and he began to stand for more all the time came under the lash of many tongues, until a frailer man than he would have been snowed under. They had taken to exchanging calls several times a week.
Burne had gone into the biology of this, and then:. Well, I suppose only about thirty-five per cent of every class here are blonds, are really light — yet two-thirds of every senior council are light. I worked the thing out with the Presidents of the United States once, and found that way over half of them were light-haired — yet think of the preponderant number of brunettes in the race. Unabashed, Burne ran his hand lovingly across the spacious foreheads, and piling up the pictures put them back in his desk.
Walking at night was one of his favorite pursuits, and one night he persuaded Amory to accompany him. They set off at a good gait, and for an hour swung along in a brisk argument until the lights of Princeton were luminous white blots behind them. And this very walking at night is one of the things I was afraid about. There were the woods looming up ahead, just as they do now, there were dogs howling and the shadows and no human sound. Then I thought of my watch. There is no such thing as a strong, sane criminal.
On this point Amory could not agree.
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It seemed to him that life and history were rife with the strong criminal, keen, but often self-deluding; in politics and business one found him and among the old statesmen and kings and generals; but Burne never agreed and their courses began to split on that point. Burne was drawing farther and farther away from the world about him.
He resigned the vice-presidency of the senior class and took to reading and walking as almost his only pursuits. He voluntarily attended graduate lectures in philosophy and biology, and sat in all of them with a rather pathetically intent look in his eyes, as if waiting for something the lecturer would never quite come to.
Sometimes Amory would see him squirm in his seat; and his face would light up; he was on fire to debate a point. He grew more abstracted on the street and was even accused of becoming a snob, but Amory knew it was nothing of the sort, and once when Burne passed him four feet off, absolutely unseeingly, his mind a thousand miles away, Amory almost choked with the romantic joy of watching him. Burne seemed to be climbing heights where others would be forever unable to get a foothold. Never enters the Philadelphian Society.
He has no faith in that rot. The argument ended nowhere, but Amory noticed more than ever how the sentiment toward Burne had changed on the campus. Burne hurried on, and it was several days before Amory heard an account of the ensuing conversation. The weeks tore by. Amory wandered occasionally to New York on the chance of finding a new shining green auto-bus, that its stick-of-candy glamour might penetrate his disposition.
One day he ventured into a stock-company revival of a play whose name was faintly familiar. The curtain rose — he watched casually as a girl entered. A few phrases rang in his ear and touched a faint chord of memory. Where —? When —?
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Take a bedroom, for example. If you use any discretion a ghost can never get you in a bedroom. Now, the first thing to do is to get the room cleared — to do this you rush with your eyes closed into your study and turn on the lights — next, approaching the closet, carefully run the stick in the door three or four times. Then, if nothing happens, you can look in. Always, always run the stick in viciously first — never look first! If you still have doubts pull the blanket over your head. Amory was enjoying college immensely again. The sense of going forward in a direct, determined line had come back; youth was stirring and shaking out a few new feathers.
He had even stored enough surplus energy to sally into a new pose. As February became slashed by sun and moved cheerfully into March, Amory went several times to spend week-ends with Monsignor; once he took Burne, with great success, for he took equal pride and delight in displaying them to each other. Monsignor took him several times to see Thornton Hancock, and once or twice to the house of a Mrs. Lawrence, a type of Rome-haunting American whom Amory liked immediately.
When I saw that picture, I immediately Googled her and we both agreed it has to be her. The couple went back to the mansion, which was built in and has 14 rooms, to see if King was still there. I imagine this will now become a spot on the ghost hunting trail. I was a skeptic before, but seeing that image, I know that it is her ghost looking down. The mansion was part of a acre estate belonging to the King family and was used as their summer home. The estate, known as Kingdom Come, was sold to a developer in , who hopes to find a buyer for it. Divine Images? Are Ghosts and Angels Real?