Contract cleanup workers disposing of old files at Simon and Schuster, the parent company of the Scribner imprint (originally Charles Scribner's Sons), have discovered a fragment of a heretofore unseen Scott Fitzgerald story.
Fitzgerald scholars had long heard of the story, reportedly a novel of manners among the very wealthy, but none had ever seen even a portion of the manuscript.
There is an apocryphal tale in the literary world that Fitzgerald actually sent 23 chapters of the manuscript to Ernest Hemingway, but the Hemingway estate won't release them.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, undeclared accounts, I thought of Mittsby's wonder when he first picked out the White House at the end of Georgsy's hope. He had come a long way to this red, white and blue stage, and his dad's dream must have seemed so close he could hardly fail to purchase it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obstinacy beyond the Beltway, where the dark base of the Republicans roiled on under their benightedness.
Mittsby believed in the White House, the fungible future that four-year by four-year receded before him. It eluded dad then, but that's no matter--tomorrow he will spend more, go negative earlier. . . And one fine, January morning-----
So he beat on, brat against the current president, borne back ceaselessly into the lost.