F. Scott Fitzgerald himself is a product of the age he is made of and talks about – unapologetic sophistication to the brim. Where in a world run by drunk men too much parties, cigars, gin and sex will never be too much.
The greatest subject of the story is Jay Gatsby’s affection for Daisy Buchanan which is same as the era it was found, lavish and superfluous. A man who can soar with the enormity of his convictions from a throbbing heart for his lady. Its almost funny and cute the same time but hopelessly tragic. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s lovebirds where the folly of a person chasing love leads to his own demise and broken legacies.
He chooses words like lavishments on a grand mansion, ceilings full of crystals and windows with super sized draperies down the marbled flooring. The words flow like pearls from a spoiled mistress. Characters drunk from too much whiskey and parties packed with people too close to one another, too many wild and loud lips to hear voices drowned in some sassy jazz playlist. The book is a hallmark of an age of people screaming money to flee or laugh at human miseries bred by society and fall short of doing so. Racism, materialism, sexist objectification of women, poverty and madman chasing dreams of worldly fame and fortune. It all looked like a game, played good enough by men willing to pay the price even in exchange of his soul. A limp beggar with a studded bracelet. It was hell that went loose and waltzes on the corner of a troubled street.
Just as the man could make your heart swell, he can swoon you over with his words then take every breath away towards the last page. A song has an ending but the love ended with the last note as well for it was a story of people with forlorn tears. There were bedazzles from ceiling lights but nowhere in the center of men who were lost but didnt want to be found. Tragic. Isnt it what the jazz age was about? Saxophones distracting people from their lonesome sleepness nights in crowded cities.
We can go back in time and feel groovy with the music. Then read the story of the great man Gatsby and think its the story of those people who fell for the promise of forever but too foolish and blind to the mountain of lies in brickhouses where people can dine on smooth linens while some savour scraps right past the glass door. Those people who have so much brightness in their eyes but see only the unnatural light rendered in halls with thick walls. I fell in love with Gatsby yet hated him at the same time.
“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”
“[Nick speaking of his first encounter with Gatsby] It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”