Gatsby (and me)

When I told the well liked, well- respected AP English teacher at the high school that the worst book I ever read was The Scarlett Letter, you would have thought I impaled him with a rusty iron rail through his heart.

He said How can you said that?

There were only two books in high school that seeped into my everyday consciousness. The first was the obvious choice: Catcher in the Rye—with Holden Caulfield’s neo- clarity.

But the book that haunted me even more was The Great Gatsby.

On many levels I know, and have known numerous Daisy and Tom Buchanans as well as lots of hanger-on-ers—people who make themselves visible only in the face of self-benefit. They are careless with their drinking and their money and their relationships.

     

Their description reads: unabandoned and dissolute.

I often feel like Nick Carraway— simultaneously watching from within and without. I am both a part and apart.

Yet fortunately I have, and continue to know protagonists—Gatsbys—who are eternally optimistic. Their hearts are incorruptible.

These are the few I call my friends.

And what I would have told the well liked AP English teacher at the high school if I had the opportunity to go back in time and clarify my statement was that the reason I hated The Scarlett Letter was because I cannot empathize with its characters. I find nothing romantic about Dimmsdale, the minister who lies about his affair to save his own soul and social standing. I see nothing appealing about a man who allows his mistress to take solitary blame or his mistress’ submissive acceptance. And the plot, while artfully written, renders antipathy—not sympathy. The message was and is, regressive.

But The Great Gatsby is different. There is everything romantic about a man who lies to save his lover’s soul and reputation. There is everything romantic about selfless love and idealism. Comparably, our world is little changed from the 1920’s—greed and dishonor still prevail. And Fitzgerald’s descriptive writing as well as the plot still rings stingingly true—it is current---timeless.

Because in his internal world, Gatsby, unlike Hawthorne’s Dimmesdale, is no phony. Gatsby remains authentic. And Holden Caulfield and I (and perhaps the AP english teacher too), to our core, will never find fault with that.