I’m still livid that a title this good was squandered on such a spiteful, self-aggrandizing, mean-spirited novel as this. The worst people you know will find honesty in it. But honesty requires personal interrogation, and Fitzgerald at this point in his life is too busy simpering and begging for the reader’s sympathies to turn his critical gaze inward. He casts himself as put-upon victim in a hermetic fantasy where he holds all the power. And his worst sin is not that he used that power irresponsibly, but that he wielded it so boringly.