AND, PERHAPS YOU DO
But please, realise this: As a "human being", the person observing, changing the thing observed, one has to then ask the then over whelmingly pressing question: What actually do we know, and, what "can" we 'know'?
With this here, Francis Scott suggests Literature has more culpability for why we do what we do than all these "rich" guys. Seems like we were wrong to presume Fitzgerald was picking a part life as the scheme as it is, and, since he too was one of them as it were, a "published" and paid author, he's no more our literary hero revealing the truth than yet another one of the disgusting teeming cocksuckers the world has yet seen fit to rid itself of.
It seems clear, we can trust no one. All are suspect. None should be trusted, even those and the work once held in such high esteem, especially over the norm and what we once thought of as the cabal of what is, and what they wanted you to believe.
These people should be fixed, broken, and NEVER again be given any more of our time. They are full of lies. They are scum of the most vile sort.