This book is a tragedy.
No, not because someone dies. It’s a tragedy because Gatsby lives a lie and loves a vapid gold digger. That, my friends, is how you waste a life.
The story is told from Nick Carraway’s point of view–and what a view it is! F. Scott Fitzgerald’s power over description and the English language is a joy to read. Partially because he brings the roaring twenties to life and partially because he describes the characters just as they are. Whether they are brash, silly, insolent, or ignorant, he portrays them as just that and doesn’t faff around with trying to make them more beautiful than they are.
They seem like people we should’ve met at some point. Just as lonely, pathetic, idiotic and cruel as any real human. And thank god, because these characters were three dimensional and not that flat, basic character one runs into so often when reading fiction.
If you’ve read the book, then the saying “Oh, how the mighty have fallen” may come to mind. Or maybe you think of partying and getting drunk at a strange guy’s house just like Ke$ha. You could really go either way here. (And really, couldn’t you see her being one of the schmucks at Gatsby’s house?)
The kind of over-the-top living the players in this novel experience all comes to nothing (kinda like Ke$ha) and the great mystery of Gatsby is less juicy than one expects. However, all is possible in the Great Gatsby. And against my better judgement–I quite adore this novel–which seems to be a dedication to excess and the vapid gold-diggers that adore it.
Such a classic!
It really is!