His talent was as natural as the pattern
that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings.
At one time he understood it
no more than the butterfly did
and he did not know when it was brushed or marred.
Later he became conscious
of his damaged wings and their construction
and he learned to think and could not fly any more
because the love of flight was gone
and he could only remember
when it had been effortless.
(Hemingway, on Fitzgerald)
F. Scott Fitzgerald was a self-destructive alcoholic who was dead at forty-four. He also wrote some of the most wonderful novels and short stories I have ever read. That's why I cherish his memory, and seek to follow this piece of advice when it comes to my own talent.