ALS, one page, 8.5 x 13, February 26, 1936. Letter to writer and journalist Leslie McFarlane, the ghostwriter of several Hardy Boys novels, in part: "There is a 3rd piece to come in Esquire in which the writer emerges somewhat from his abyss. I am glad I wrote the article, or rather the three short articles, not because they furnished any special catharsis but because they evoked such letters as yours from various literary men and women. One of the ghastly aspects of my gloom was a horrible feeling that I wasn't being read. And I'd rather have a sharp criticism of my pet child Tender Is the Night such as yours was, than the feeling of pouring out endless words to fall upon us ears as I had had. I rather think I'm done as a writer—maybe not, of course. The fact that I can still write a vivid metaphor or solve a technical problem with some suavity wouldn't be an indication one way or another. However time will tell, and in the meanwhile I appreciate the goodness of heart that prompted your letter." In fine condition. Accompanied by the original mailing envelope addressed in Fitzgerald's hand.
Fitzgerald first makes reference to three essays he wrote for Esquire— 'The Crack-Up,' 'Pasting It Together,' and 'Handle With Care'—published consecutively in the first three months of 1936. The final essay—the one in which "the writer emerges somewhat from his abyss"—begins: 'I have spoken in these pages of how an exceptionally optimistic young man experienced a crack-up of all values, a crack-up that he scarcely knew of until long after it occurred.' In the piece, he hopelessly describes a coming-to-terms with some disappointments in his life, concluding that 'the natural state of the sentient adult is a qualified unhappiness.' In this letter, he goes on to reply to criticism of his "pet child" Tender Is the Night, which he considered to be his greatest novel. Published in 1934 after nearly ten years of on-and-off work, it initially received a tepid response from critics, but has since been recognize as a masterpiece. It would be Fitzgerald's last novel published during his lifetime, lending some credence to his sorrowful remark: "I rather think I'm done as a writer."
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