This postcard is from F. Scott Fitzgerald, who, admittedly, was not a sunshine kiddy at the best of times (being drunk should not be confused with being happy). However, this is heartbreaking.
At first glance it seems like the normal sort of postcard F. Scott Fitzgerland might send to a friend. The postcard reads (as far as I can tell with the loopy script):
How are you? Have been meaning to come in and see you. I’ve been living at The Garden of Allah.
Yours, Scott Fitzgerald.
At first I thought “oh, his daughter’s name was also some version of Scott, right? She must have been some early version of those girls who abbreviate their name to male names in a non-threatening but plucky/sporty way (Jo. Charlie. Alex.). What an oddly formal letter to write her. Well, I guess that was the 1930’s.” No. No.
It was a letter to himself. You can see the postmark is to him. Oh, God, is anyone else doing this? Are we destined to get so lonely that we begin forming letters to ourselves at the end of out lives? Please let me know! If this happens I will write you a postcard! You can dedicate some equivalent of The Great Gatsby to me in return, that is all I ask.
Picture via Flavorwire