It took me a while (or all of my life) to finally sit down and read F. Scott Fitzgerald. I wasn't avoiding him. Really. His books simply remained untouched like so many other classics that were omitted from the required reading lists of English courses I took.

After completing This Side of Paradise last night, I suddenly wished I had read it long ago, well before entering college. How my ideas and views might have been influenced. To have known the name and story of Amory Blaine back then might have sparked something inside of me. It's useless to speculate now, I know, but it's fun nonetheless.

I suppose this is all to say that Fitzgerald gave me a distinct sense of dissatisfaction. He left me feeling quite inadequate and uneducated. By now, I should already have a clear understanding of Shaw, Wells and Chesterton. I should be able to recite poetry (or song lyrics at least) without difficulty. I should be able to reference Savonarola or Baudelaire with ease and comprehension and not simple mimicry.

I'm quite taken with the book. It feels as though a reading list of book titles and authors was woven right into the story, a great number I've never read or taken the time to explore. My curiosity has been piqued and I'm glad.