The Great Gatsby

 

"He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself" (Fitzgerald 110).

I can remember looking at the cover of The Great Gatsby as a high school student, anticipating a text that would be an absolute sedative. Some fear cropped up within me that the words would be indecipherable, the plot out of reach, the characters of too high a caliber for me to fathom them. The fatal flaw that an author would have written for me was a debilitating anxiety over not understanding. Perhaps the result of being pushed ahead a grade in English, or maybe plain pride in my supposed "giftedness" in the subject, I was horrified that the reality of my perceived ineptitude would rear up and I would be made to feel failure. It would be better, I reasoned, to exert barely any effort and partially blunder than to apply myself and be seen as a fool.

What a peach, right?

Thus, my earlier memories of the book are not glamorous or whimsical. The main sticking point I can recall was the non-existence of East and West Egg. How a kid that popped through fantasy novels like they were a bag of M&M's became hung up on a partially fictional setting, I will never know. It may have had something to do with the actuality of New York and comparative invention of all the rest of it. In my mind, if you were going to fabricate a small island, you might as well build an entirely new world. Why let laziness get the best of us?

Again, what a peach.

From this point, we move forward in time to a course in Critical Theory. The text utilized by the professor to demonstrate the literary application of each theory was, for purposes of ease and convenience, none other than The Great Gatsby. I purchased a new copy and set out to re-invent myself as a hesitant lover of the massive, mirrored eyes looking out at whosoever may tread upon the hallowed ground of the valley of ashes. Fifteen weeks and five or six reads later, there I was: a fully formed Fitzgerald junkie, purchasing his other, lesser-known works for my summer reads. But how did I get there, you may be asking. What demon possessed and transformed me into someone enthralled by the annals of fictional characters caught up in Jazz Age vices?

Great question. I would love to tell you.

1. "Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light...The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms" (17).

Color theory. This concept was one that I wish had been part of my initial education on the novel...I first became aware of Fitzgerald's consistent and subversive use of color upon my second interaction with Jay Gatsby. What fascinates me about well-executed color theory in literature is the understated way that it conveys meaning to the reader without his or her awareness. We feel the weight of Tom's abusive American aristocracy, Myrtle's desperate facsimile of the upper-class lifestyle, and the corrupted opulence represented by Gatsby's Rolls Royce. But how do these emotions infiltrate our perception of the characters, somewhere beyond our conscious awareness? Fitgerald's genius utilization of color. What binds together all of the characters in the aforementioned list is the inconspicuously obvious golden hue of Tom's hair, Myrtle's clothing, and gleaming exterior of the convertible. Myriad such examples exist within the text, and they cannot be unseen, especially after one has taken an arsenal of highlighters to each and every mention of color.

2. "Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have known" (59).

Unreliable narration. Nick Carroway is perhaps the most understated narcissist I have ever had the pleasure of encountering in the pages of a book. He consistently presents himself as separate from the clueless crookedness of the people around him and casually lauds his moral superiority, but yet there he is, always partaking in the same drinks, drugs, and dances as the rest. He can't decide what he thinks about Gatsby in life, and his borderline obsessive interest doesn't end with Gatsby's eventual demise. The man is larger than his surroundings, singular in his bold willpower, and Nick desires more than mere friendship with Gatsby-he wants to be Jay Gatsby. The unrepentant ambition that topples all moral conviction doesn't repulse Nick, even as he identifies and condemns some of Gatsby's actions as such. Perhaps Nick sees a braver and more austere version of himself in the ruthless Gatsby.

3. "Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever...Now it was a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one" (93).

Human nature. The Great Gatsby is a tragedy of human desires warring with moral and practical truth. Nick falls for the glitzy exterior of the New York set that in fact never fully accepts him. He is an observer, but not reluctantly so. He treasures this role, as it enables him to both associate with and harshly judge those with whom he associates. Gatsby, on the other hand, is in love with himself as the afflicted romantic lead who builds an empire in order to regain his lost lady. Daisy is the perfect item for this disparate longing, as she is beautiful, shallow, and coldly aware of the part she must play to "win" at this self-imposed game.

4. "A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host" (55).

The facade. A continuation of the previous point, Fitzgerald presents the Jazz Age (a term that he coined) with all of the dizzying glamor that draws later generations back to it. He also slowly reveals the falsehood hidden there with all the honest reflection of a man who lived through it. Readers can see the trap inherent within the desperate evasion of responsibility and emotional stability. The characters are imprisoned by their desire for financial and moral freedom, even when faced with the consequence: a sacrifice of truly meaningful relationships or pursuits. The toxic cycles go round and round. They each fall, dizzy, into whatever circumstance will serve their cloying need for physical gratification.

So, should you read The Great Gatsby? If you do, you will find a warning within its dysfunctional storyline, the type of warning that can only come from someone who sat behind the bars of social neurosis himself.