This is Fitzgerald’s second novel, after This Side of Paradise but before Gatsby. Fittingly, I liked it more than Paradise, but it’s not as good as Gatsby. All three are truly quite similar though. I’m not the only one who thinks he kept writing semi-autobiographical couples to represent him and Zelda. (And unclear how much Scott plagiarized Zelda’s ideas.) I love Fitzgerald’s ability to grasp a complex feeling in one brilliant sentence, but the characters didn’t hold my interest and the plot could have used some tightening up. I did appreciate the existentialism prevalent throughout, as the characters ask what’s the point of writing or really anything. Fitzgerald clearly wrote this post-WWI, and I would have liked to see these philosophical questions explored more. The narrator here was quite good, and he definitely got into character well.