Fitz. Fitz writing for the youth of his generation and the critics of ever after.  About nobody have worse or more essays been written.  I hear words I never heard in the bible. What a doll. And not bad to look at but peculiar. Like milk not quite turned. Fitz, very Romantic, like a tic submerged in champaign. His characters behave like children were children utterly charmless and unspontaneous. He had a sellable brand of observant narrow-mindedness. He apologized in a preface for taking 16 years on not Ulysses. Great God, Fitz. Put some clothes on. You look like crouching Aphrodite. Nobody can take you seriously if you insist on winking after every phrase. Like gotcha journalism after an informercial. I value you so little and yet you read well. Floyd Mayweather will beat that karaoke-evangelical parliamentarian into another dimension and neocolonialism will roar. I bet Fitzgerald would too. His dream after all is all of ours. Chlorinated like a public swimming pool.

I read all of Francis' novels from the Beautiful and the Damned on. Tender is the Night is probably his best but why not read Keats and leave it at that.  They are great reads.  Francis Scott Key penned the Star-Spangled Banner but he plagiarized it like Bob Dylan but jingoistic and not much of a pimp. In the good way. Pimps are not what they were. Ever since Don Juan's Reckless Daughter they feel emasculated and eviscerated like a rhyming dictionary hanging too long around Walt Clyde.

Frazier is Liberty now, not the blasted Statue of Surveillance. As for Francis Scott Key

Praise, my soul, the God that sought thee,
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found thee lost, and kindly brought thee
From the paths of death away;
Praise, with love's devoutest feeling,
Him Who saw thy guilt-born fear,
And the light of hope revealing,
Bade the blood-stained cross appear.

Ben Frank shuldve done sumthan bout that

History is a total waste of time.