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We can also recognize that this new confessional voice is as much evasion as revelation. In Fitzgerald’s self-disclosure, there was much literary art, and a heavy dose of self-deception. At times, as writers or readers, are we all not guilty of such self-deception? As T.S. Eliot reminds us, “our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves”It is interesting, therefore, that the opening sentences of the first essay are actually in second-person, not the supposed “greater authenticity provided by the first-person voice with all its limitations.”Fitzgerald begins with the provocative claim, “Of course all life is a process of breaking down . . .”Following these introductory sentences, there comes the oft-quoted apho- rism of Fitzgerald, “[T]he test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise”.There are, of course, many precedents for a first-person voice—confessional or otherwise.It is also true that while something is being revealed, “often in a wry, self-deprecating style”,much more is being concealed. Fitzgerald makes no mention of his own alcoholism, his affair with a married woman, or of Zelda’s schizophrenia.Rather telling omissions, one might say. In his 1981 article, Donaldson says, “As it stands, ‘The Crack-Up’ tells its truth only between the lines” Indeed it does. But that is true of much of Modernist fiction and poetry, is it not?