What allows some people to escape their demons while others can’t shake them off? What mad inertia drives some, demonstrably resilient, people straight over cliffs to their destruction? I guess there are thousands, millions of individual answers to that question. I had a moment with Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald the other week, wondering if they might whisper something, inspire some insight, as I stood by their grave with a meager offering of flowers. Wondering how things went so terribly wrong this side of paradise (although some of the answers to that question are blatant), but also wondering if things look remarkably different (and if there was any wisdom that they could share) from the other side of paradise.
I was met with little more than a cold March breeze and silence, but for the low hum of the roadside just beyond the graveyard.
Until . . . I turned my back to leave and a swirl of snow flurries began to fall. Not forecast, not expected, and not entirely welcome in March, but altogether beautiful. And this was my farewell from the Fitzgeralds. They were a puzzle to the end– and even beyond– but, by God, they had style. And it seems they have it still.
The stone at the foot of the grave, engraved with what is likely Fitzgerald’s most famous passage, from the end of The Great Gatsby.
A few more notes on the gravesite, the Fitzgeralds, and my visit:
Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald are buried at St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Rockville, MD: a very old church around which a modern sprawl has grown. The graveyard sits atop a busy intersection– a major artery in the morning commute into DC. Despite that, it feels quiet and respectful. The Fitzgerald headstones are set back from the road, close to the old church building, so they enjoy one of the more serene spots in the cemetery.
And “serene” well describes the moment I lingered over this gravesite– if it doesn’t describe the Fitzgeralds’ lives in the least. Their lives were too often consumed by mania– in Zelda’s emotional state, in Scott’s unquenchable thirst for alcohol– but their final resting place is peaceful. Its background music may be the rumble of the road and the back-and-forth and here-and-there frantic energy of the ambitious, but this small plot seemed impervious. I paused a moment on a Friday morning, I placed my flowers and bowed my head briefly, and I raised my head again to find that snow flurries had appeared out of nowhere. Within minutes, the sky grew heavy and the swirl picked up.
I moved on, eager to make use of the free morning I had, wary of what unforeseen storm might be blowing in to disrupt my plans, but also delighted at the beauty of the unexpected swirl and sudden cold. I jumped in my car and headed out into the Rockville Pike traffic, a boat against the current, but moving nonetheless.