Monday, August 25, 2014

Read Kirk Curnutt's Short Story "I, Jozan"

Christal Cooper  4,445 Words (including the short story “I, Jozan”

“I, Curnutt”
*Scholar and Writer Kirk Curnutt On His Fascination With the Fitzgeralds, The Short Story, and “I, Jozan”

Vice President of the F Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum, Kirk Curnutt, 49, remembers reading his first short story, “The Lottery”, by Shirley Jackson, when he was eight years old.  What most appealed to him about “The Lottery” was the twist ending, which he incorporates in some of his own work, including his short story “I, Jozan”, which explores the relationship between Zelda Fitzgerald and French Admiral Edouard Jozan.

Curnutt wrote his first short story and experienced his first memory of Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald when he was ten years old.

         “I remember my mother owning a copy of Nancy Milford’s biography Zelda in the mid-seventies when I was a child. Some of the pictures of Zelda’s later years gave me nightmares.”

He religiously continued writing short stories, using the family’s electric Smith-Corona typewriter so obsessively that he consumed one ribbon per week. 
“Later, I took that typewriter to college and, in my senior year, as I was writing a paper that was due the next day, the “e” broke and went flying across the room. I didn’t do very well on that paper.”

He discovered the literature and life of Scott And Zelda when he was a teenager, and continued to read both of their works well into his college years. 

He earned his bachelor’s in English and Journalism from the University of Missouri.  After graduation, he worked in the magazine and corporate communications field before he decided to go back to school, at Louisiana State University, where he earned a Ph.D. in English. 
In 1993, he moved to Montgomery, Alabama to teach at Troy University Montgomery Campus, and it was then that he realized just how special Scott and Zelda’s work was. 

“I was a fan of the early short stories; the romantic sensibility appealed to me. I didn’t think of it as a specialty until I moved to Montgomery and realized I was in Zelda’s hometown.”

Asking Curnutt, the Professor and Chair of English at Troy University Montgomery Campus, what his favorite short story or novel is by Scott and Zelda is one of the hardest questions for him to answer, because he is constantly re-reading their works, causing his favorite piece to change through the years. 

“My favorite novel right now is Tender Is the Night. My favorite short story is “Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr*nce of W*les,” which is a fluffier one that’s fairly obscure. I also like one called “The Popular Girl,” which is a very sweet romance. I tend to be drawn to his commercial short stories right now. I feel strongly that too many of them have been dismissed as hack work. They deserve to be read!

I enjoy Zelda’s short story  “Our Own Movie Queen” because I’m in the middle of a major Tallulah Bankhead obsession, and it’s about her.”

Thus far the prolific Curnutt has written 13 books in numerous genres:  short story, fiction, and non-fiction.
“I did a “beginner’s guide” to Fitzgerald called The Cambridge Introduction to F. Scott Fitzgerald, (Cambridge University Press) and a few years back I was hired to do an imaginary interview with Ernest Hemingway called Coffee With Hemingway (Duncan Baird). It’s apparently being re-published by another company under the title, An Interview with Ernest Hemingway, which sounds snoozy. I’ve also done two novels, Breathing Out the Ghost (River City Publishing) and Dixie Noir (Five Star Publishing).”

Curnutt’s other works are Brian Wilson:  Icons of Pop (Equinox Publishing Limited); Baby, Let’s Make a Baby! Plus Ten More Stories (River City Publishing); Literary Topics VW Ernest Hemingway & Expatriate Modernist Movement (Gale Study Guides to Great Literature:  Literary Topics) (Gale Group); Gale Study Guide to Great Literature (Alienated Youth Fiction) (Gale Group); Wise Economics (University of Idaho Press); The Heath Anthology of American Literature; The Modern Period (1910-1945) (Cengage Learning);  A Historical Guide to F Scott Fitzgerald (Oxford University Press); Key West Hemingway An Assessment (University Press of Florida); and Critical Response to Gertrude Stein (Greenwood).

Curnutt’s most recent published work is the historical fiction short story “I Jozan”, which explores the relationship of Zelda Fitzgerald and Eduardo Jozan. 
“I originally wrote it in 2011 for a Fitzgerald Society conference we were having in Lyon, France. There have been so many guesses about the relationship between Zelda and her French aviator in 1924 that I thought it would be funny to do a humorous spin on the legend.

The idea marinated for about six months before I got around to writing the first draft.  I knew the trick ending, so it developed backwards, basically. The story ends on a serious denouement, but the climax right before it is funny (in theory), so I blocked out the action, almost outlining it, I guess. The original beginning was a lot chattier, probably six hundred words. I cut it after the first few rejections when I realized editors probably weren’t getting past the opening two paragraphs. The story also involved a lot of research. I was borrowing details from various biographies. Finding the voice was pretty tough, too. I wanted it to sound as if it had been translated from French, but the first few drafts sounded forced that way, so I abandoned that idea.  It probably went through ten rewrites before I published it.

What intrigued me about their relationship is that nobody can say with certainty whether it was a flirtation or a full-blown affair. Regardless, it was a major turning point in the Fitzgeralds’ marriage. They lost their innocence in a lot of ways, although they also played the incident up. I’ve probably read two dozen different accounts of how Zelda ran around in Southern France with Jozan while Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby, and they’re all different.

Sometimes biographers assume they were lovers, sometimes writers make it sounds as if they were merely passing acquaintances. Jozan himself was always insistent the friendship was platonic, but late in life, thanks to Nancy Milford’s biography of Zelda---the first time he was named---he suddenly had journalists knocking on his door asking him very personal questions. That was the idea behind the story, that a man who had an incredibly distinguished career as a pilot and admiral in the French Navy would find himself in his seventies being asked about something that happened when he was in his twenties.”
The one thing Curnutt regrets and is apologetic about the publication of “I Jozan” is that it offended the family of Edouard Jozan.

“I’ve always thought of him as a historical figure, someone whose name was so much a part of history that it wasn’t a big deal to make him a character. Knowing how angry the story made some members of the family---even if Jozan himself is treated sympathetically---I’m not sure I would have published it now. Writing about real people and using real names entails a lot of ethical issues I’m not sure many writers stop to think about. I know I never did, but I do now!”
Just like there is the mystery of if Jozan and Zelda had an affair , there is also the mystery of who is Edouard Jozan, which is part of the reason of why Curnutt finds the man so fascinating.

“He was a test pilot and a WWII war hero, but other than that, information is elusive. I’ve heard rumors that a biography about him has been written; I’d love to see it published. What I do know is how Scott and Zelda used him in their writing, creating fantasy images of him that suited their emotional needs. For Zelda he was an ideal man; for Scott he was an ideal rival. They wrote about him repeatedly in their fiction.”
Another great mystery to ponder is if Scott or Zelda would have liked Curnutt’s short story “I, Jozan.”
“They probably wouldn’t like it because the story is more sympathetic to Jozan than to them. Then again, they had a sense of humor about themselves, so maybe they could take it in the spirit they did parodies of them by Dorothy Parker or Donald Ogden Stewart in the early 1920s. I don’t think the humor is mean-spirited. It’s a loving satire, if such a thing exists.”

Curnutt continues to read and write voraciously.  He’s re-reading the short story “St Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves” by Karen Russell, which he is teaching this fall at Troy University in Montgomery campus.

He is also in the finishing stages of his reader’s guide to Hemingway’s novel To Have and Have Not and is revising a draft of a 600 page novel!

Contact Kirk Curnutt via email at or on the web

I, Jozan
*Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

“.…as a handsome young aviator stationed in Fréjus in 1924, Édouard Jozan (1899-1981) met Zelda Fitzgerald on the Riviera, and the pair commenced an ‘affair’ that reverberated thereafter throughout not only The Great Gatsby but all of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s subsequent writings. Quotation marks must surround any reference to this dalliance because no one can say with certainty whether the mutual attraction was consummated or whether it was merely a chaste flirtation. Late in life, hounded by Fitzgerald biographers, Jozan was the ultimate gentleman and chivalrously declined to discuss details of this romantic summer. Despite rampant speculation, the true story will never likely be known.…”

                                                                                                                           —Stanton H. P. Kale, Jr., Encyclopedia of Real People in Fiction


ONE DETAIL I CAN CONFIRM: the bit about the comb. It didn’t happen quite as the woman with whom my name is forever entwined described it in Save Me the Waltz, the novel I’m told few can finish because it’s so florid. I don’t sashay into a room “gesticulating Latin gallantries.” Yet when I first saw her tousling her hair with three pitchforked fingers, I seized the opportunity. Everything about the beachside casino my friends and I had just wandered into worked to my advantage. Scimitars hung from the walls, Algerian rugs carpeted the floor. The décor consisted of brass trays and African drumheads, mother-of-pearl inlays, red lamps, and damask drapes, all perfumed with the briny, salty smell of sea. I stepped behind this creature as she searched for herself amid the mirror’s mildew speckles and unsheathed the spare brush I carried for just this occasion. Even without a camel or a tent in which to creep I was the Sheik of Araby. Cupping her chin in my palm, with a flick of tines, I flipped her part from the left to the right.

“Voilà,” I smiled.

“Never seen it tried like that,” she whistled. “I like your originality.… And so does my husband!”

Only then did I notice that a certain speck I’d mistaken for mildew was a man’s head. It loomed from a corner of the mirror, which hung behind the bar. Unsure of how to apologize, I ended up insisting I carried no germs.

“I wish we could say the same.” The man raised his glass. “We’re infected with fun.”

I introduced my companions—Bobbé, Bellando, and Rivy—and then formally announced my own name.

“Joanne?” the husband said.

“Jozan,” I corrected him.

The woman admired her hairdo. “I don’t care what your name is. I’m going to give you a new one. I heard the loveliest French compound the other day. Chevre-feuille. In English it’s one of my favorite words because it tastes so good to say: honeysuckle. From here on out, that’s what you’ll answer to. Now what do you and your friends do for a living, lieutenant?”

My answer upset the husband more than my comb: “We fly airplanes.”

Nervous, the casino’s owner intervened. He understood the dangerous effect aviators can have on women. These people were celebrities, he insisted, a world-famous author and his muse. Not to be trifled with. To my ears the husband’s name couldn’t have sounded more American; I wasn’t surprised when Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, as he introduced himself, insisted that his ancestor had authored their national anthem. The wife’s name was as foreign as her accent, though—short, hard, buzzing, with none of the sibilants we associated with women. Zelda.

“I believe she’s a gypsy,” I whispered to my friends.

“Lieutenant Honeysuckle,” Zelda meanwhile inquired. “Have you ever buzzed a woman’s house in your airplane?”

“But of course, Madame. It’s the only reason one would wish to fly.”

My friends cackled. The truth was that while we’d graduated flying school and were stationed at the airfield at Fréjus, we were chasers, not pilots. Instead of striking handsome silhouettes against the sun, our job was to escort and deliver supplies. To the real pilots we weren’t but errand boys. I wasn’t about to disillusion a lady, however.

“So that means you might tumble into a tailspin for me, Honeysuckle?”

Normally I wouldn’t recommend answering such a question within arm’s reach of a husband. Yet Scott was all grin. His smile twisted the tips of his two-week-old mustache. I couldn’t get over his handsomeness. His hair was parted sharply down the middle, with two curls framing the center of his forehead like a pair of quotation marks inviting you to read his thoughts. “Oh, go ahead, Joanne,” he said. “You won’t hurt my feelings. I’ll even still pop for the bill.”

I sensed them sizing me up, and a wisdom of my father’s beat a tattoo on my mind: Avoid the ménage a trois. Because no matter how you divide it, a ménage a trois is only ever a folie à deux staged for an audience of one. I stepped outside for fresh air. Scott joined me.

“Say now, I don’t mean to bully you, but you hurt my wife’s feelings walking off like that. Can’t you be a sport and play along? We’re just having fun—that’s what the Riviera is for, isn’t it? I don’t mind other men making fast with my wife as long as it’s only words. In fact, before we go back inside, I have a bit of a proposition I’d appreciate you entertaining.”

He told me they came to France because the distractions in America were too many. Only after a month abroad he’d realized the distractions had expatriated alongside them. Zelda was easily bored, and when that happened Scott’s writing didn’t. He worried he’d never finish the novel he’d started. “I saved up $17,000 to do it,” he sighed. “It’s my last shot at legitimacy, too. I’ll never prove my potential if someone won’t take my wife off my hands for me.”

It struck me what he was proposing.

“One moment: you want me, a French lieutenant and aviator, to occupy your wife? So you can write?”

“I’ll cover your expenses—lunches, drinks, whatnot. As far as salary, I would think twenty clams a week will do. That’s twenty American smackers—more than my maid makes. If you have half the savvy you seem to you’ll make a killing from the exchange rate.…”

I thought of another saying of my father’s: It’s not easy being the man every woman desires. It was what he told my mother every time she confronted him over his latest mistress. Scott didn’t notice my distraction.  

“….The only condition is that Zelda can never know. I won’t have her hurt. She’s used to men falling in love with her, but as beautiful as she is, she’s nearly twenty-four, and you know what that means.”

I had no clue what that meant.

“Only six years ’til she’s thirty,” he lamented.

A BETTER MAN, A MORE MATURE MAN, might have recognized the perils of such a mission and pulled the rip cord right away. $20 a week enabled a poor officer to fill out his uniform, however, so I ingratiated myself. I arrived at the beach each day and dropped my towel closer to hers. I engaged her in conversation to the exclusion of her friends. I raked the pebbles from under her feet and fetched drinks from the concessionaire. Mostly I reclined on my side wearing swim trunks my friends bought me.

Trunks that were two sizes too small.

Slowly, the canvas mats upon which we sunned drifted loose from the continental ridge of her circle’s umbrellas, and Zelda and I formed an archipelago all our own. When our skin dried and threatened to crack we took to the sea. Once tired, we floated on our backs pointing at passing objects. Then we emerged dripping salt to lie caked in sand. After a respectable number of days I draped a towel across her shoulders and offered to dry her hair. Zelda grinned wickedly.

“You and the hair, Eddie.… Look at us—we’re as wet and smooth as two cats caught licking themselves.”

It was the moment I knew I’d earned my pay.

AND ONCE A WEEK I met my employer to collect that pay.

That was what was supposed to happen, at any rate.

“What does she say about me?” Scott would ask, making no effort to reach for his wallet.

“She says she loves you very much.”

“She hasn’t said anything that might … you know … embarrass a guy?”

“I know not what you mean.”

“I mean boudoir stuff, Joanne.”

“It’s Jo-zan.”

“Jesus Christ, I know that. I’m just joshing—but not about her. You’ll let me know if she ever gets into any hubba-hubba?”

“Your wife is a lady. She would not indulge in any ‘hubba-hubba.’”

“If she does, I just want you to know, she has some … unrealistic expectations. Look, I topped out at 5’7’’. When that happens, everything’s going to be in proportion, if you catch my drift. I’ve tried to tell Zelda that not everybody comes out of the chute with as generous a portion as Rasputin.…”

When the conversation grew too personal I cut to the chase. “I will happily accept my twenty clams.”

“Yeah, well, about that.…” He made a grim face as he patted his pockets. “I’m going to have to catch up with you the next go-round. This week finds me this side of stony.”

THE CON WENT ON for six weeks until Zelda made a startling admission.

“Scott’s seething with jealousy. I don’t want to fret you, but he keeps going on about the code duello. Research for his next novel, he says, but he’s obsessed with proving he’s more manly than you. You have to promise me that if Scott challenges you to twenty paces you won’t hurt him too badly.”

The idea was preposterous, but I confronted my employer anyway. Scott shrugged.

“Don’t let the game swell your bean, Ed. I have my part to play in this farrago, and I’m just selling it. The arrangement’s working dandy. My writing is better than it’s ever been. I really do believe mine will be the greatest novel by any American ever.”

“But we’ve gone too far. She thinks you’re capable of violence. Zelda has this silly idea we would duel over her!”

He drained his gin and ran his tongue over his teeth.

“Then we’ll have to.”

I told Scott the very thought was insane, but he’d already hashed out a plan.

“We’ll build it up over dinner. You lay it on thick until I crack. I’ll jump and say something like, ‘You, sir, are a cad and a garter-snapper, and I would gladly show you what it means when a greasy gigolo insults the dignity of an American woman if only this country of yours still subscribed to the protocols of the code duello.…’ That’s your cue to stand up and clap me. Not too hard, now—I don’t need my jaw realigned. As for the duel itself, correct me if I’m wrong, but if we really wanted to kill each other, we’d only march off eight paces. Obviously, we can’t do that. But if we go for forty Zelda won’t take us seriously. Let’s settle for twenty. I read a book by Pushkin. He says twenty is heroic.”

“One moment—you expect me actually to duel you?”

“No point in going through the rigmarole of a challenge if we can’t carry through. There’s a golf course outside Juan les Pines. All we have to do is aim a little left, over the shoulder, and we’ll miss each other. My only fear is we might pot somebody stepping up to a nearby tee.…”

I begged him to dismiss this nonsense. That was when Scott’s eyes tightened and his voice dropped nearly an octave.

“You’re bought and paid for, Joanne. The only way you’re getting out of this deal is if you don’t aim over my shoulder tomorrow morning. But then you’ll go down in history as the man who killed the man writing the best novel to ever come out of America—before he could finish it.”

I CONSIDERED SIMPLY not showing up. I’d be denounced as a coward, however, an insult to my noble heritage. At the Hotel du Cap Scott and Zelda sat on opposite ends of the table and shared nary a word; whispers among their friends implied they’d argued violently. Over what wasn’t hard to guess. If stares could stain, my white uniform would have been mottled. I tried a thousand subtle times to relax the tension, but Zelda was as intent on provoking her husband as Scott was on being provoked.

“Today when I swam, Honeysuckle told me I had the grace of a seagull. You did tell me that, didn’t you, Lt. Suckle? I wasn’t dreaming?”

“I may have … perhaps … said something along those lines.”

Scott threw down his napkin. “God dammit, man! You expect me to sit here and have Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to my wife? I tell you, if only this country still subscribed to the code duello—”

The silence that greeted his climax was cavernous. As Scott blinked in anticipation, I felt gulped by the dead air.

“See what I mean?” he scrambled to recover. “If this country had half the tradition it claims to, my cheek would be redder than Sinclair Lewis’s scabby face!”

When I still didn’t reply he showered me in obscenities. And when that didn’t work he threw his drink in my face: “I say, you greasy gigolo, shall we take this outside or what?”

I dabbed the champagne from my eyes and coughed an excuse: “I cannot fight you. You’re my friend.”

I couldn’t have wounded him worse than if I’d swept his wife onto the table and made passionate love to her next to the bouillabaisse.

NEEDLESS TO SAY, I was relieved of my duties. A curt note awaited me at the barracks in Fréjus the following day: Take a short walk into a long propeller, traitor. For six weeks of work I received fifty dollars, a third of my due.

I only saw them once more. That October, after the exodus of summer tourists and while I awaited a transfer I’d requested to Indochina, I jogged up the Croisette in Cannes to avoid an autumn rain. Passing the Café des Alliés, I spotted Scott and Zelda enjoying a romantic aperitif. They looked so perfectly symbiotic I wondered if I hadn’t fantasized the whole summer. Then they caught me spying. The smile they gave each other had an unmistakable air of natural intimacy. Not just I, the rent-an-interloper, but anyone on the receiving end of it would’ve thought what I did: no way could they not have conspired together.

Because they looked exactly like two cats caught licking themselves.

I COULDN'T BEGRUDGE them their practical joke. I was a fool and a poor man, so when my opportunity came, I shed my bitterness and proved that honor and duty will redeem any dupe. My career was long and enviable. Four and a half decades after that summer, I retired at the rank of vice admiral, one of the most decorated officers in the French navy. I’d forgotten all about the Fitzgeralds, easily and thoroughly, because they bore no bearing on the Édouard Jozan I became--

At least not until the letters began arriving. Dear Sir, they said, We are looking for a man who may have answered to the name ‘Joanne.’ We’ve scoured the military archives and you fit two essential criteria. You’re French and an aviator. Would you mind answering a few questions?

I met with the biographers because I had no choice. I was terrified the Fitzgeralds had written about my gullibility. What they’d done, I discovered, was far worse. They stole my identity. The Édouard Jozan they described had come into their lives, taken what he’d wanted, and retreated into that vast carelessness that lets others clean up the mess. The way they spun the tale was brilliant in its caginess. I was a cartoon cad, an unrepentant rake, an unctuous, skirt-chasing gigolo, a Latin lothario. On one point—the most important point—they were so coyly ambiguous I knew they must’ve connived over it. I could picture them plotting in both senses of the word, not only mapping a storyline but hatching their scheme. They’d ensured I would spend eternity replying to the question that no gentleman wants asked because it’s an insult to the chivalry and courtliness he holds dear:

Did you sleep with her?

Do you know, I told my interrogators, that for forty-five years after that summer I served my country with distinction? I commanded a flotilla at Dunkirk. And when France fell I was captured by the Nazis. I survived the camps. And yet all you want to know is

Did you sleep with her?

I survived and afterward on my chest I wore the Croix de Guerre, the Grand Croix du Mérite de l’Ordre de Malte, and the Grand-Crois de la Legion d’Honneur—the highest honors in my country. I was promoted to vice-admiral and commanded the French fleet in Indochina.

Yes, but did you sleep with her?

I married the granddaughter of the man who stopped the Germans from taking the Marne in 1914. I raised my children to honor history and truth so when they were adults they could look to me and say proudly I feared nothing. I raised them to remember their father as a noble man who never failed them.

And still, even in the afterlife, I have to put up with your curiosity.

When the question comes I have only one recourse. I gesticulate a few Latin gallantries, and then I plead:

It’s not easy being the man every woman desires—nor the one every husband needs to invent as his nemesis.


The F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum
Attributed to Christal Rice Cooper

Kirk Curnutt
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

Shirley Jackson
Date unknown
Fair Use Under the United States Copyright Law

1st edition, 1940, of The Lottery The Adventures of James Harris

Early Christmas childhood photo of Kirk Curnutt and his mother
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Zelda by Nancy Milford

Painting of Kirk Curnutt as a teenager.
Attributed to Didi Menendez
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

F. Scott Fitzgerald visits Zelda Sayre in 1919 at the Sayre Family home in Montgomery, Alabama.
Public Domain

Kirk Curnutt in 1996
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

Kirk Curnutt’s photo on Auburn Montgomery Campus Website.
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt.

F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald in 1923.
Public Domain

The first edition (1934) of Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
The cover of McCall’s Magazine July 1924 issue in which the short story
“Rags Martin-Jones and the Pr*nce of W*les”  by F. Scott Fitzgerald was first published

Jacket cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “The Popular Girl”

Tallulah Bankhead in 1941
Attributed to Talbot
Public Domain

Jacket cover of The Cambridge Introduction to F. Scott Fitzgerald by Kirk Curnutt.

Jacket cover of Coffee With Hemingway by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Breathing Out the Ghost by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Dixie Noir by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Brian Wilson:  Icons of Pop by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Baby, Let’s Make a Baby!  Plus Ten More Stories by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Literary Topics VW Ernest Hemingway & Expatriate Modernist Movement by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Gale Study Guide to Great Literature (Alienated Youth Fiction) by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Wise Economies by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of The Heath Anthology of American Literature:  The Modern Period (1910-1945) by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of A Historical Guide to F. Scott Fitzgerald by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Key West Hemingway An Assessment by Kirk Curnutt

Jacket cover of Critical Response to Gertrude Stein by Kirk Curnutt

Kirk Curnutt (front row in the middle) and the other individuals who attended the 2011 Fitzgerald Society conference in Lyon, France
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

Image of  F. Scott, Zelda, and Scottie Fitzgerald in the French Rivera in May of 1924
Public Domain

1st edition 1925 jacket cover of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Kirk Curnutt (far right) and Admiral Edouard Jozan’s daughter (in the middle in red geometric top) at the F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum in May of 2014
Copyright granted by Kirk Curnutt

Admiral Albert Edouard Jozan
Date Unknown
Attributor Unknown
Fair Use Under the United States Copyright Law

Dorothy Parker
Late 1910s to early 1920s
Attributor unknown
Public Domain

Donald Ogden Stewart receiving his Academy Award for best screenplay writer The Philadelphia Story
Fair Use Under the United States Copyright Law

Karen Russell
October 12, 2012
CCSA3.0 License

Jacket cover of To Have And To Have Not by Ernest Hemingway

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