About thirty years ago the job fell to me, Jay McInerney. Every few decades it produces a writer who tells its stories, its triumphs, its tragedies, its comedies, its romance. McInerney has never been crippled with shyness about his own standing as a writer, as evinced in the opening salvo of that documentary: “New York is a lucky city, at least as far as literature is concerned. Looking back, I am not sure what had put me off reading it? The story does, after all, explore similar territory to one of my favourite films of that period, Oliver Stone’s Wall Street, but somehow the book never quite managed to call out to me.What brought me to dig it out after all this time was a chance viewing of an excellent documentary that Jay McInerney presented on BBC4, called Sincerely F Scott Fitzgerald. I was given a copy of this novel more than thirty years ago, not long after it was published, but, with what might, sadly, have been characteristic ingratitude at that time, I had stowed it away on a bookshelf somewhere, unread and largely forgotten.
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