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.Readers caught in the flow, however, are not discom-fited in the slightest they naturally apprehend what Fitzgerald is doing,for the writing is of unparalleled beauty, and the resonance of his lan-guage leaves nothing unsaid.This, I guess, is what literary genius is allabout.For the translator, however, rendering such prose into colloquialJapanese is virtually impossible.Faced with this dilemma, I decided to emphasize the musical rhythmthat lies at the heart of Fitzgerald s style.If I could somehow re-create thatrhythm in Japanese, then the melody and the lyrics would fall into place.This musical analogy made natural sense when it came to approachingFitzgerald.I occasionally found myself reading sections of the novel aloudas I worked, sometimes in the original English and sometimes in Japa-nese.I m not sure how effective this was.But you should know that I usedthis technique in carrying out this translation, and that it reflects my fun-damental approach to his art.What makes Fitzgerald s prose so strikingis that rhythm once established, the words flow naturally.This is thebeauty of the Fitzgerald style as I see it.I fear I have gone on a little too long talking about my relationship to TheGreat Gatsby, and what it took to translate it.Still more might well be said,but that could go on forever, so I will set it aside and turn to another of myduties as translator: laying out the historical context of Fitzgerald s noveland the circumstances under which he wrote it.By necessity this will be asimple and fairly rough account, a quick trip across an immensely detailedlandscape.The idea of writing Gatsby first came to Fitzgerald in 1923.He startedserious work on the novel the following spring in France, where he andhis wife, Zelda, had gone to live, and completed it by the end of thatyear; it was then published in the United States in April 1925.Fitzgerald had become the golden boy of the literary world after hissensational 1920 debut, and had already published two long novels, ThisSide of Paradise (his first novel) and The Beautiful and the Damned, as wellas two collections of short stories, Flappers and Philosophers and Tales of theAs Translator, as Novelist: The Translator s Afterword175 Jazz Age.Americans had been swept up in the unprecedented economicboom that followed the First World War, and they were looking for ahero who would embody the blossoming new culture.Young, handsome,and utterly fearless, Fitzgerald was precisely the literary icon they re-quired, an elegant and magnanimous voice that could speak on behalf ofthe new generation.Meanwhile, Zelda, his beautiful young wife, reignedas the princess of the flappers: poised at the cutting edge of fashion andliberated from old-fashioned morality, she indulged herself to her heart scontent in a life of carefree consumption.Even while enmeshed in this flamboyant lifestyle, Fitzgerald raked inthe money, turning out one high-priced short story after another for thepopular journals.Most were simple, guileless stories with happy endings,designed merely to amuse, but included in the mix were a few that werebreathtaking.How a callow young man such as Fitzgerald was able toproduce such masterpieces despite his ignorance of the world, and his gen-eral lack of stability and self-discipline, remains a mystery.Unless, that is,one chalks it up as one does with Mozart, Schubert, and their com-rades to that single word, genius.Despite the noisy disorder of his life, Fitzgerald was filled with aburning ambition to write an epoch-making novel.Certainly, the shortstories he kept spinning out meant that he would never want for money.While novels forced one to wait in the hope that royalties would eventu-ally start rolling in, the big magazines were offering fantastic rates forcommissioned stories, and they paid right away.Financially, therefore,short stories were by far the better option.Professionally, however,Fitzgerald knew he would never be considered a first-class author untilhe had bequeathed a solid, weighty novel to posterity.This was the waythe literary world worked then and, with very few exceptions, still does.Fitzgerald was convinced that he was no lightweight; that if he could cre-ate just the right circumstances, he was capable of turning out a novelthat would become an enduring classic.This Side of Paradise and The Beau-tiful and Damned had not been bad efforts, and their critical reception hadbeen reasonably good.They had sold well.Yet his inner voice told himthat he was capable of writing a novel with much more depth.Successwas within his grasp.Once the flurry of activity surrounding his literary debut and mar-riage had subsided, Fitzgerald escaped the hubbub of New York withZelda for the more peaceful community of Great Neck in suburbanLong Island.It was 1922, and he was twenty-six.He was committed toPart II: The Translator at Work176 settling down there to do some serious writing; yet there was no way thehyperactive and glamour-loving Zelda could submit to a quiet suburbanlifestyle and so, once again, the boisterous parties resumed.It would bea mistake, however, to see them as profitless, for the endless round ofrevelry they enjoyed in Great Neck paid off later, when it came time forFitzgerald to craft the scenes we find in The Great Gatsby.Fitzgerald was the type of novelist who could only write about whathe had actually experienced or seen, which is why it was imperative thathe live near the eye of the typhoon that was Zelda.We can thereforepresume that had it not been for their wild nights in Great Neck, themasterpiece that is Gatsby would never have been written or, failing that,would have taken a very different shape.Certainly, Fitzgerald couldnever have described the parties in the book in such a fresh and livelyway.One of Fitzgerald s weak points was his difficulty in striking a bal-ance between input and output.When his input passed a certain level,the excess energy reduced his output (this is the story of the first half ofhis career); conversely, cutting back on his input deprived him of thematerial he needed to write (this is the story of the second half).InGatsby s case, miraculously, Fitzgerald was able to hold these two sidesin a beautiful, albeit precarious, balance.Such perfect equilibrium, how-ever, would never occur again in his life.In 1924, seeking a quieter, more relaxing spot that would allow himto concentrate on his novel and enable both of them to cut back on theirescalating expenses (a futile goal, however often they might move), theFitzgeralds changed locations yet again.Putting Great Neck behindthem, they steamed across the Atlantic to their new home on the FrenchRiviera.The couple seemed fated to spend their lives restlessly movingfrom one temporary abode to another (I am hardly one to talk here, bythe way).Settling down in one place was quite beyond them.As a result,as long as he lived Fitzgerald never owned his own house, choosing in-stead to rent.Nor did he try to build up any sort of financial security.One can see these choices as reflecting a kind of purity, I suppose, butthe upshot was that Fitzgerald s life lacked any semblance of stability,whether in his home life or in his finances.In any case, once ensconced in the fabled beauty of southern France,Scott in what was a rarity for him threw himself into his work.ForZelda, this was no fun at all.Being left on her own for long periods oftime sent her boredom level skyrocketing
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