Upon learning that he was to be featured in “The Literary Spotlight” of The Bookman in March, 1922, Fitzgerald wrote to Edmund Wilson, “I deduce that this is your doing. My curiosity is at fever-heat — for God’s sake send me a copy immediately.”1 In this early critical estimate of Fitzgerald, Wilson stressed the lack of form, the lack of basic purpose in the first two novels: Fitzgerald, he said, “has been given imagination without intellectual control of it; he has been given a desire for beauty without an aesthetic ideal; and he has been given a gift for expression without any ideas to express.”2 It is difficult to overestimate the seriousness with which Fitzgerald probably regarded Wilson’s criticism. Having met as undergraduates at Princeton, he and Wilson were close friends throughout Fitzgerald’s lifetime; in “The Crack-Up,” 1936, Fitzgerald confessed, “For twenty years a certain man had been my intellectual conscience. That was Edmund Wilson.”3 Wilson’s 1922 essay in The Bookman must have caused Fitzgerald to reconsider soberly and deeply his entire approach to the novel as an art form. Sometime between The Beautiful and Damned (1922) and The Great Gatsby (1925), Fitzgerald won “intellectual control” over his imagination, and, in doing so, abandoned one literary tradition and embraced another.