I remember going through a stage when I was really into F. Scott Fitzgerald and reading his book of nonfiction The Crack-Up, the title essay of which recounts a spiritual and emotional breakdown that he experienced in his late-thirties, after his literary success. That essay was criticized by some of his contemporaries for being too revealing, too candid, not becoming of a professional author, who ought to show some reticence and equanimity when it comes to his inner life. But over time, as mores changed, and Fitzgerald’s stature asserted itself and did not wane, the essay began to receive the recognition I think it deserves.