Benjamin Button was born in the usual way just before the outbreak of the Civil War. And yet he was not at all the usual baby. Instead of the frantic cries and cherub cheeks you would expect to find in the hospital nursery, there sat an old man, white whiskers, rheumy eyes and all. As the years passed something even more remarkable began to happen, instead of aging in the usual manner he seemed to live his life in reverse. Each year he grew younger, stronger, smarter. Incredibly he eventually died, an infant.
F. Scott Fitzgerald was at one time even more well known for his short stories than he was for his full length novels. After having read arguably his most famous, I can understand completely why this was so. Normally a short story leaves me wanting, feeling as if too much had been left untold. They are usually either heavy on the description and short on plot, or lacking in both departments. Benjamin Button was neither. It seems that Mr. Fitzgerald struck upon the perfect combination. In just 25 pages he managed to pull me into the story and even make me care about what happened to his title character. That shows an immeasurable level of talent. This short story will definitely be the ruler by which I will measure all others.