
F Scott Fitzgerald's final bow: Lost Pat Hobby story ‘Double Time' published at last
The discovery feels laced with Fitzgeraldian irony: a half-forgotten story about a washed-up Hollywood hack, rescued from obscurity long after its creator's death. Written in 1940, just months before Fitzgerald's own curtain call, Double Time bears all the hallmarks of the Hobby stories: grim humor, showbiz sleaze, and faded glamour.
The Pat Hobby stories, 17 in total, written during Fitzgerald's late, lean years in Hollywood, were his final sustained body of work. Once the golden boy of the Jazz Age, he had become a hired pen in an industry that barely tolerated him. Arnold Gingrich, his editor at Esquire, later recalled, Fitzgerald treated the Hobby stories as 'a collective entity,' obsessively rearranging them to suggest a loose continuity, writes Nasrullah Mambrol, the founder of literariness.org. But they were ultimately fragmented, episodic sketches, each tale resetting the clock on Pat's slow-motion downfall.
Pat Hobby himself is a 49-year-old has-been, a studio-era barnacle clinging to a world that has moved on. He is lazy, bitter, conniving, and autobiographical. If Gatsby was the dreamer and Nick the observer, Pat is the survivor, trapped in a purgatory of bad scripts and worse luck. He does not chase green lights; he scams per diems.
In Double Time, Pat lands not one gig but two, a fluke windfall that he juggles with all the grace of a con man on borrowed time. Thanks to a chance encounter at Santa Anita racetrack, he finds himself working (loosely defined) for two studios at once, bouncing between lots, dodging responsibility, and rationing his gin. The ruse falls apart in an ending that is farcical and fatalistic. He is undone not by his incompetence, but by a studio doctor who spots him through a hole in the wall.
Fitzgerald famously wrote the Hobby stories for money. He sweated over every revision, telegramming edits even as his health declined and his debts mounted. The result is an uneven but fascinating body of work. Some stories read like polished vignettes, others like hurried sketches. Collectively, they signal a shift in Fitzgerald's style: more clipped, less lyrical, as if anticipating the cool realism of the postwar novel.
For years, critics dismissed the Hobby tales as minor works, epilogues to a once-brilliant career. But that verdict is beginning to turn. Recent scholarship has begun to reevaluate them as satirical portraits of the Hollywood machine, or even experiments in self-erasure. Pat Hobby may be a loser, but he is also a survivor, a stand-in for the author who created him, doggedly rewriting his own decline.
The credit for Double Time's resurrection goes to Anne Margaret Daniel, a literary scholar and longtime Fitzgerald excavator, who edited a collection of previously unpublished stories by Fitzgerald, I'd Die for You and Other Lost Stories (Scribner, 2017). The manuscript had been hiding in plain sight within the Fitzgerald archives at Princeton, where the author began his literary career as an undergraduate. He never graduated, distracted by writing, romance, and war, but Princeton remained an emotional anchor. That Double Time should reemerge here feels fitting.
The university has been digitising its Fitzgerald holdings in recent years, including fragments such as the 'Ur-Gatsby' draft (discarded early version of The Great Gatsby) and the corrected Trimalchio galleys (original galley proofs of The Great Gatsby, which were initially titled Trimalchio). Now, Double Time, the missing piece of the Fitzgerald mosaic, joins the ranks.
Double Time reads like a noir-tinged screwball comedy, full of misdirection. Pat Hobby is too delusional to be tragic and too pitiful to be heroic. But Fitzgerald gives him dignity as even if success remains elusive, he persists.
In 2025, Pat feels relevant. One can sneak glimpses of him in a freelancer faking productivity, the veteran pushed aside by younger talent. That Fitzgerald wrote him in the shadow of his own downfall only sharpens the resonance.
Fitzgerald once claimed there are no second acts in American lives. Pat Hobby, and perhaps Fitzgerald himself, show that it is perhaps not true. Double Time may be their last bow, but they remain onstage.
Aishwarya Khosla is a journalist currently serving as Deputy Copy Editor at The Indian Express. Her writings examine the interplay of culture, identity, and politics.
She began her career at the Hindustan Times, where she covered books, theatre, culture, and the Punjabi diaspora. Her editorial expertise spans the Jammu and Kashmir, Himachal Pradesh, Chandigarh, Punjab and Online desks.
She was the recipient of the The Nehru Fellowship in Politics and Elections, where she studied political campaigns, policy research, political strategy and communications for a year.
She pens The Indian Express newsletter, Meanwhile, Back Home.
Write to her at aishwaryakhosla.ak@gmail.com or aishwarya.khosla@indianexpress.com. You can follow her on Instagram: @ink_and_ideology, and X: @KhoslaAishwarya. ... Read More
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Hindustan Times
3 days ago
- Hindustan Times
The nine lives of Cat Power: Sanjoy Narayan writes on a shape-shifting artist
Two months ago, Chan Marshall (the American singer-songwriter better known as Cat Power) was touring Europe with her Cat Power Sings Dylan '66 tour, recreating Bob Dylan's legendary 1966 Royal Albert Hall concert, complete with the same acoustic-to-electric arc that scandalised folk purists nearly 60 years ago. For Marshall, it's been a remarkable journey to this point. As musician and actor Carrie Brownstein recently wrote in The New Yorker, Richard Avedon's iconic 2003 photograph of her — cigarette in hand, holding a Bob Dylan T-shirt askew over a bare torso, jeans left half-unzipped — captured an artist seemingly indifferent to the grandiosity of being featured in this magazine. That image, from a chaotic period in Marshall's life when The New Yorker famously declared it was 'foolhardy to describe a Cat Power event as a concert', feels like a distant memory. Today, Cat Power is 53, more structured, more intentional, yet no less enigmatic as an artist. Let's trace the evolution through a 15-song playlist. Our journey begins with The Greatest (from The Greatest; 2006), not just her most beloved song but a powerful declaration of arrival. It marked her emergence from years of addiction and erratic performances. Her newfound vocal confidence announced an artist who had survived her demons and was ready to claim her space. The song is anthemic without being triumphant, a quintessentially Cat Power paradox. Next, we encounter the artist as the interpreter, in Manhattan (Sun; 2012). Her version of this Lorenz Hart standard strips away Broadway's glitter, leaving only urban isolation. Marshall doesn't merely cover songs; she performs autopsies, unearthing the emotional viscera beneath familiar melodies. Album covers from 2000, 2018 and 2012. Sea of Love (The Covers Record; 2000), reflects this excavation too. Phil Phillips's 1959 doo-wop hit is transformed into something dangerous in her hands — seductive, predatory, like Nina Simone channelling a siren. This reveals Marshall's unique gift: making the familiar foreign, and the safe scary. Rewind a bit more now, for early originals such as Cross Bones Style (Moon Pix; 1998) and He War (You Are Free; 2003). These tracks transport us to her lo-fi beginnings, when she was still finding her voice, literally and figuratively. They are documents of survival as much as songcraft, capturing an artist processing trauma in real-time, her whispered vocals barely holding together over sparse instrumentation. I Don't Blame You (You Are Free; 2003) and Cherokee (Sun; 2012) represent highpoints. The former is perhaps Marshall's most vulnerable song, a direct address to an absent father (also a musician) that feels intimately voyeuristic: 'Last time I saw you, you were on stage / Your hair was wild, your eyes were red / And you were in a rage / You were swinging your guitar around. / Cause they wanted to hear that sound / But you didn't want to play. / And I don't blame you…' Cherokee stretches over nearly seven minutes of hypnotic repetition, Marshall shaman-like, channelling something ancient and indefinable. Her nomadic childhood, moving between 10 different schools across the American South, often in her grandmother's care, listening to Otis Redding and The Rolling Stones, deeply permeated her music. This rootlessness created an artist equally at home with American folk traditions and punk rock rebellion. Metal Heart (Moon Pix; 1998) marks a transition into Marshall's significant covers period. Her interpretation transforms this obscure track into a David Lynchian soundscape: beautiful and unsettling. It is followed by Good Woman (You Are Free; 2003), proving her ability to craft compelling narratives as well as abstract emotional landscapes. The inclusion of Werewolf (You Are Free; 2003) — her take on Greenwich Village folk icon Michael Hurley's classic — demonstrates Marshall's knack for finding kindred spirits across decades. Like Hurley, she was an outsider. Her version feels like a conversation between musical misfits united by non-conformism. Now for the playlist's final third. Maybe Not (You Are Free; 2003) holds early signs of what we see in Marshall's more recent work, where sparse arrangements give way to more conventional song structures without losing the essential Cat Power DNA. Here we see an artist who has learned to harness her chaos without domesticating it. Names (You Are Free; 2003), Lived in Bars (The Greatest; 2006) and Woman (Wanderer; 2018) trace her evolution from wounded confessor to wise sage. After grappling with alcoholism and mental-health issues, culminating in rehab at the Mount Sinai Medical Center in 2006, she emerges with hard-won wisdom. The journey concludes with Satisfaction (The Covers Record; 2000), a glacial reimagining of the Rolling Stones classic. Where Mick Jagger's version was sexual frustration as rock-and-roll rebellion, her is an existential meditation. It is a perfect metaphor for her entire artistic project: taking the familiar and making it strange, finding darkness in the light and light in the dark. Marshall's Dylan tour represents a kind of homecoming, not only to the folk traditions that shaped her but to a version of herself that can inhabit his revolutionary spirit without being overwhelmed by it. Like Dylan in '66, Cat Power has always been an artist in transition, refusing categorisation. The key difference is that while Dylan's changes often felt like provocation, hers feel like survival strategies. In a career defined by covers and originals, chaos and control, vulnerability and power, she created a body of work that functions as both mirror and mystery, reflecting our experiences back to us while maintaining an essential inscrutability. That's the true power Marshall wields: the ability to make us feel less alone in our confusion, more comfortable with our contradictions, and more willing to embrace the beautiful mess of being human.

New Indian Express
7 days ago
- New Indian Express
On editors, the invisible architects
In a world that celebrates authors as solitary geniuses, the role of the editor remains largely invisible. A name tucked into acknowledgements, buried in footnotes, or sometimes not mentioned at all. Yet anyone who has truly wrestled with the written word knows: behind every great book stands a quiet co-creator. Editors do more than fix grammar or polish style. They are critics, confidantes, coaches, and often, crisis managers. They are the invisible architects of Maxwell Perkins, the legendary editor who shaped the careers and voices of giants of American literature such as F Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Thomas Wolfe. As Scott Berg's Pulitzer Prize-winning biography, Max Perkins: Editor of Genius (later adapted into the film Genius), brilliantly reveals, Perkins was more than an editor. He was a career counsellor, a therapist, a financial lifeline, and above all, a believer. My own writing journey has been shaped by the steady, compassionate hands of remarkable editors. My wife, Deepali, was my first and fiercest critic. She was never afraid to tell me when something didn't work, but always with the faith that it could. She reminded me that writing, like any practice, demands repetition and resilience. C K Meena, my co-author, wields her editorial scalpel with grace and precision. She taught me the value of brevity: that writing is not just about what to say, but what to leave out. And then there was Abhivyakti Singh at Hachette. Gentle yet unwavering. She believed in my voice even when I doubted it myself. The work of great editors often hides in plain sight. Take Ursula Nordstrom, the visionary children's editor at Harper & Row. Her letters, compiled in Dear Genius, are a testament to editorial empathy. Alternately playful, firm, maternal, and fiercely protective, her correspondence with authors like Margaret Wise Brown, Maurice Sendak, and Shel Silverstein reveals a sacred trust. Harold Ross, the founding editor of The New Yorker, left his imprint on the very tone of the magazine. His letters, collected in Letters from the Editor, reveal a man obsessed with rhythm, honesty, and precision. Closer to home, Ramachandra Guha's The Cooking of Books offers a delightful glimpse into the Indian publishing ecosystem. Built around his irreverent and witty exchanges with the reclusive editor Rukun Advani, the book reminds us that editorial relationships are often marked by friction, pushback, and negotiation, but at their best, they are built on mutual trust. Chiki Sarkar represents a new breed of editor – entrepreneurial, intuitive, and in tune with the digital generation. From her time leading Penguin India to founding Juggernaut Books, Sarkar has championed new voices and unconventional formats such as mobile-first literature. One of the towering figures in modern publishing was Sonny Mehta. As the publisher of Knopf, Mehta was a soft-spoken force who balanced literary excellence with commercial appeal. He wasn't interested in trends but in truth. He guided the careers of Haruki Murakami, Michael Ondaatje, Toni Morrison, and countless others. Speaking of Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison, few know she was a trailblazing editor who championed Black voices at Random House long before the industry prioritised diversity. Fewer still know that Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis lived a second life as an editor – a talented one, with a discerning eye – at Viking and Doubleday. What connects unsung editors across the globe is their courage to say 'not yet' when everyone else is saying 'good enough'. They listen, hearing what isn't yet said; they sense the story beneath the syntax and then reveal it. Their fingerprints may be invisible, but their impact is unmistakable. The rewards they seek are not fame or fortune but a line that sings, a paragraph that finally breathes. Their work is a labour of devotion – to the writer, to the reader, and most of all, to the story. To all the invisible architects who shaped the books that shaped us – this is your story too. Thank you. (The writer's views are personal)


Mint
21-07-2025
- Mint
Lounge Loves: ‘Marley Springs Ahead', ‘Jogi' and more
The first look for Aditya Dhar's Dhurandhar, which dropped last week, is a surprisingly well-put-together Bollywood promo. The action is cut to the beat of Jogi, a 2003 track by UK producer Panjabi MC. This was a remix of an incredibly catchy 1995 Punjabi folk number called Na Dil De Pardesi Nu, composed by Charanjit Ahuja. Panjabi MC kept Muhammad Sadiq and Ranjit Kaur's playful vocals, adding a big beat and a few yells. The track appeared on the same album that gave the international hit Mundian To Bach Ke. The Dhurandhar version sounds essentially like Panjabi MC's, with some further mixing and tweaking by Shashwat Sachdev. The biggest addition is a rap by Hanumankind, who made a big splash last year with Big Dawgs. Sadiq and Kaur's original vocals can scarcely be improved, and are duly retained here as well. It's impossible not to read Jhumpa Lahiri's new short fiction, Jubilee (published recently in The New Yorker), as a fragment of autobiography. The unnamed first-person narrator revisits the year when Queen Elizabeth II celebrated her jubilee. Back in 1977, she, the narrator, then a girl of 10, spent three months in London, the city of her birth, with her parents and infant sister. Her memories of that time are light and innocent, but also heavy with a tragic awareness—of the past as well as future. Inspired by writer Mavis Gallant, Jubilee could have come from Lahiri's Pulitzer-winning debut collection, The Interpreter of Maladies (2000). It's an elegy to loved ones, especially to mothers, crafted with the delicate reserve that Lahiri is synonymous with. We have a pile of baby books at home which my one-year-old used to pore over in awe, but now the awe only lasts a few seconds per book. The only book that holds her for longer is Marley Springs Ahead, a touch book about a dog that my sister fortunately saved after having her child over a decade ago. Between my child's love for animals and the bright colours and different textures, Marley is definitely her favourite book. We don't go anywhere without him. Unfortunately, there aren't more available in India, so I'm being ultra careful with this book. I am even softer on him after discovering he is the very Marley that Marley and Me was based on, and by the same author.