When I think of great American novelists, Fitzgerald and Wharton are who come to mind.
I love Edith Wharton. It is a fact of my life. When asked who my favorite writer is, I answer undoubtably with her name. To me, her writing is simply unsimple, breathtaking, and unlike anything I have ever read before. I love Edith Wharton so much that I can barely put it into words.
I love Fitzgerald too. His stories bounce off the page and rattle in my mind, and his control of the written word is one that is unparalleled. Distinctly American in nature, his prose feels like home.
I never thought there was any connection between these two writers apart from their nationality and skill. Of course, I knew there were similarities between Wharton’s The Age of Innocence and Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Written five years apart and both dealing with class, I thought that was inevitable. I didn’t know, however, that Wharton herself had read The Great Gatsby and held it in high acclaim.
Somehow knowing that made everything make sense, as if order had been restored to the world of great American novels. For the first time, I seemed to understand.