Light Years [antikvár]

Lens Job, an Introduction Your body is an instrument, an organ or a drum . . . Moooompitcher yaah! —Nathanael West, The Dream Life of Balso Snell Some years ago, while shooting a commercial in L.A., I made a pilgrimage to F. Scott Fitzgerald's last apartment on North Hayworth. The stucco was nostalgically peeUng. The current occupant was too busy conducting a lawn sale to show me around, but from what I could see, Fitzgerald had a splendid view of the Hollywood hills. It was here that he played out his last years, awed and humiliated by the manufacture of American fun. To the end, cranking out unsuccessful screenplays, he cultivated an attitude of great expectations and romantic disgruntlement toward the industry. "It was Uke visiting a great turbulent family," he wrote of the film crew that appears briefly in