They were the first great celebrities among American writers. The glamorous F. Scott Fitzgerald — with his even more glamorous wife Zelda at his side — became the most dazzling icon of the Jazz Age, only to be eclipsed by his alpha-male frenemy Ernest Hemingway, the world’s most famous author for much of the mid-20th century.
Reporters followed them everywhere, and their often bumbling private lives were the stuff of every tabloid editor’s dreams.
Scott and Zelda, Ernest and — well, a lot of women: We still can’t get enough of them. Biographies keep being issued. Movies such as Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris luxuriate in the nostalgia of the so-called Lost Generation of writers and artists pursuing la vie boheme in the 1920s and ’30s.