“The Great Gatsby”, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

208 pages, Arcturus, ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1839407581

Golly, what a swell book. No, really. I feel that, when one reviews a masterpiece of literature like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, they must give it a glowing review and praise it to the hilt, if only not to look like an utter philistine in the eyes of…everyone. But no, this is legit; I really liked this book and understand why it is an American literary classic. While a mere 208 pages and measuring a meagre 6.5” x 4.25”, Fitzgerald tells as complete a tale of extraordinary wealth, missed opportunities, crushing regret and melancholy remembrance as anyone could. While Gatsby has been on my radar for years, I only just now got around to reading it after having seen Baz Luhrmann’s lavish interpretation (a brilliant interpretation, I might add, having now become familiar with the source material; way to go, Baz).

The Great Gatsby is set on Long Island during the Jazz Age and is narrated in the first-person by Nick Carraway as he details his interactions with the mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and his obsession to reunite with his lost love, Daisy Fay Buchanan. The backstory, I find, is just as interesting as the novel, based as it is on Fitzgerald’s youthful romance with socialite Ginevra King and the riotous parties he attended on Long Island’s North Shore in 1922 (when the novel is set). Following a move to the French Riviera, Fitzgerald completed a rough draft in 1924 and submitted it to editor Maxwell Perkins, who persuaded Fitzgerald to revise the work; after said revisions, Fitzgerald was at last satisfied (but remained ambivalent about the title); interestingly, Francis Cugat’s cover art greatly impressed Fitzgerald and he incorporated aspects of it into the novel.

In the century since its publication, The Great Gatsby has been subject to all sorts of interpretations as to its Profound Message and Hidden Meanings – Antisemitism, Battle of the Sexes, Class Differences, Identity, Race (of course), Sexuality (again, of course), Technology and so on – most of which I believe are caca…except for the most obvious one, the one that Fitzgerald intended: disillusionment with the American Dream during the Jazz Age (a term Fitzgerald claimed to have coined). In a nutshell, the American Dream states that every individual, regardless of their origins, may seek and achieve their desired goals in the Land of Opportunity. Under Fitzgerald’s pen, however, there is precious little optimism that this will, in fact, happen, not only for Gatsby, Nick and others in their circle, but for those down the economic scale, especially the Wilsons.

Fitzgerald posits that the “hero” of his tale, Jay Gatsby – or rather, James Gatz – is in fact a false prophet of the American Dream, showing through his life that those who pursue it often fail and, as a result, live lives of dissatisfaction due to its ultimate unattainability. This is illustrated in The Great Gatsby by the green light on the Buchanan’s dock, visible in East Egg from Gatsby’s house in the less-fashionable West Egg, serving as it does as Gatsby’s unrealizable goal to win Daisy who is, to our protagonist, the living embodiment of the American Dream. This is also relevant in that Gatsby is, in fact, not the successful businessman he poses as: while he worked hard and honestly under Dan Cody, he lost his rightful inheritance to Cody’s ex-wife, forcing Gatsby to become a bootlegger and earn his wealth through nefarious means.

The Great Gatsby takes place in 1922, with the Great War won and disillusionment over the same firmly in place in America and elsewhere, what with the awesome decadence and vast wealth, shown through the lavish parties Gatsby throws week after week. In addition to the very rich – Gatsby, Tom and Daisy Buchanan and even Jordan Baker – we meet the very poor in the form of George and Myrtle Wilson (who is also Tom Buchanan’s mistress). We learn that Gatsby courted Daisy before the war but couldn’t win her dues to his pennilessness, that she married Tom while Gatsby was still in Oxford but that, through his unceasing efforts, rekindles their affair and tries mightily to win back his lady love – to achieve the American Dream through hard work and dedication, as it were, like we’re all supposed to.

But all for naught: while Daisy is tempted to leave her husband for the man she once loved, she never does; Tom Buchanan’s powers of persuasion keep his wife firmly by his side, and Gatsby can only sputter at his failure after having come so close – that damn green light was almost in his hands at last. And then, everything really falls apart: Myrtle Wilson is killed when, after Gatsby and Daisy leave the Plaza hotel together, Daisy runs her husband’s mistress down and leaves the scene, although all and sundry believe that Gatsby is responsible for the deadly hit-and-run (they were, after all, driving his car). Gatsby is ultimately murdered by George Wilson and is buried, mostly unmourned and unremembered by the legions who attended his parties and never asked who gave them or why he bothered.

And that’s it. In a mere 208 pages F. Scott Fitzgerald skewers the era he lived in and punctures the myths that Americans told about themselves. I, as you can well imagine, find his disdain for the American Dream to be just a little overwrought, seeing as his sight was fixed firmly on the upper classes and the grasping throngs who sought to catch their coattails. This is, after all, a big country filled with millions who do not see success as what you own or who you strive to be, but on other small-scale victories, like living your life without hurting anyone, or building a modest fortune that ensures the survival of those you love rather to impress total strangers with all the stuff you own. But all of this was not what Fitzgerald was focused on; his was a critique of the Great and the Good of the upper classes who were not so great or good.

But there can be no doubt that Fitzgerald painted a portrait of his time that resonates across the ages, which is rather tragic considering that, when he died in 1940, he believed himself to be a failure and his work forgotten. Good God, what a failure.