Tales of the Jazz Age | Page 2

amusement. I was in that familiar mood characterized by a
perfect craving for luxury, and the story began as an attempt to feed
that craving on imaginary foods.
One well-known critic has been pleased to like this extravaganza better
than anything I have written. Personally I prefer "The Offshore Pirate."
But, to tamper slightly with Lincoln: If you like this sort of thing, this,
possibly, is the sort of thing you'll like.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON.
This story was inspired by a remark of Mark Twain's to the effect that it
was a pity that the best part of life came at the beginning and the worst
part at the end. By trying the experiment upon only one man in a
perfectly normal world I have scarcely given his idea a fair trial.

Several weeks after completing it, I discovered an almost identical plot
in Samuel Butler's "Note-books."
The story was published in "Collier's" last summer and provoked this
startling letter from an anonymous admirer in Cincinnati:
"Sir--
I have read the story Benjamin Button in Colliers and I wish to say that
as a short story writer you would make a good lunatic I have seen many
peices of cheese in my life but of all the peices of cheese I have ever
seen you are the biggest peice. I hate to waste a peice of stationary on
you but I will."
TARQUIN OF CHEAPSIDE.
Written almost six years ago, this story is a product of undergraduate
days at Princeton. Considerably revised, it was published in the "Smart
Set" in 1921. At the time of its conception I had but one idea--to be a
poet--and the fact that I was interested in the ring of every phrase, that I
dreaded the obvious in prose if not in plot, shows throughout. Probably
the peculiar affection I feel for it depends more upon its age than upon
any intrinsic merit.
"O RUSSET WITCH!"
When this was written I had just completed the first draft of my second
novel, and a natural reaction made me revel in a story wherein none of
the characters need be taken seriously. And I'm afraid that I was
somewhat carried away by the feeling that there was no ordered scheme
to which I must conform. After due consideration, however, I have
decided to let it stand as it is, although the reader may find himself
somewhat puzzled at the time element. I had best say that however the
years may have dealt with Merlin Grainger, I myself was thinking
always in the present. It was published in the "Metropolitan."
UNCLASSIFIED MASTERPIECES

THE LEES OF HAPPINESS.
Of this story I can say that it came to me in an irresistible form, crying
to be written. It will be accused perhaps of being a mere piece of
sentimentality, but, as I saw it, it was a great deal more. If, therefore, it
lacks the ring of sincerity, or even, of tragedy, the fault rests not with
the theme but with my handling of it.
It appeared in the "Chicago Tribune," and later obtained, I believe, the
quadruple gold laurel leaf or some such encomium from one of the
anthologists who at present swarm among us. The gentleman I refer to
runs as a rule to stark melodramas with a volcano or the ghost of John
Paul Jones in the role of Nemesis, melodramas carefully disguised by
early paragraphs in Jamesian manner which hint dark and subtle
complexities to follow. On this order:
"The case of Shaw McPhee, curiously enough, had no hearing on the
almost incredible attitude of Martin Sulo. This is parenthetical and, to
at least three observers, whose names for the present I must conceal, it
seems improbable, etc., etc., etc.," until the poor rat of fiction is at last
forced out into the open and the melodrama begins.
MR. ICKY
This has the distinction of being the only magazine piece ever written
in a New York hotel. The business was done in a bedroom in the
Knickerbocker, and shortly afterward that memorable hostelry closed
its doors forever.
When a fitting period of mourning had elapsed it was published in the
"Smart Set."
JEMINA.
Written, like "Tarquin of Cheapside," while I was at Princeton, this
sketch was published years later in "Vanity Fair." For its technique I
must apologize to Mr. Stephen Leacock.

I have laughed over it a great deal, especially when I first wrote it, but I
can laugh over it no longer. Still, as other people tell me it is amusing, I
include it here. It seems to me worth preserving a few years--at least
until the ennui of changing fashions suppresses me, my books, and it
together.
With due apologies for this impossible Table of Contents, I tender these
tales of the Jazz