Review this book for a chance to win. Show Details Description:. Item Price. Seller Peter L. Published Condition First Edition. Seller Jeffrey H. Marks Rare Books Published Condition A fine copy in a beautiful unrestored dust jacket, with only a little of the usual fading to the backstrip. The Last Tycoon, unfinished novel by F.
Scott Fitzgerald, published posthumously in It was simply outdated. The theme of it is stated in a conversation among the three principal characters. A tip for reading Tender Is the Night. So The Last Tycoon is a literary adaptation, an extrapolation of an unfinished work, a fictionalized account of a true story, and a commentary on current societal tensions, all rolled into one gorgeous-looking television series. Fitzgerald planned a similarly tragic end for Stahr, killing him off in a plane crash at the height of his battle with Brady.
Obviously each family possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth -- the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous to intrude.
Farther up, where the beach was strewn with pebbles and dead sea-weed, sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous to the place. Between the dark people and the light, Rosemary found room and spread out her peignoir on the sand. Lying so, she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself.
The breath of an inquisitive dog blew warm and nervous on her neck; she could feel her skin broiling a little in the heat and hear the small exhausted wa- waa of the expiring waves. The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress, obviously a relic of the previous evening, for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder. Rosemary, forming a vague antipathy to her and her companions, turned away.
Nearest her, on the other side, a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand.
Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back, a ruddy, orange brown, set off by a string of creamy pearls, shone in the sun. Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary's but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft, and who looked back at her, seeing her; then a man with a long face and a golden, leonine head, with blue tights and no hat, talking very seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights, both of them picking at little pieces of sea-weed in the sand.
She thought they were mostly Americans, but something made them unlike the Americans she had known of late. After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with a rake, ostensibly removing gravel and meanwhile developing some esoteric burlesque held in suspension by his grave face.
Its faintest ramification had become hilarious, until whatever he said released a burst of laughter. Perhaps from modesty of possession she responded to each salvo of amusement by bending closer over her list.
The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky above Rosemary. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like to meet you. Reluctantly she got up and went over to them. Abrams -- Mrs. McKisco -- Mr. Dumphry --" "We know who you are," spoke up the woman in evening dress.
The woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess, despite her name. She was one of those elderly "good sports" preserved by an imperviousness to experience and a good digestion into another generation. About The Author. Product Details. Related Articles. Resources and Downloads. Get a FREE ebook by joining our mailing list today!
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