Breathe in the smug and let the neon lights begin to phase you. Forget what it means to think. Indulge in something new. You are lost. Welcome to the thoughts of F. Scott Fitzgerald.
The Great Gatsby is a love story.
We meet Nick Carraway. A narrator, a voice, a layer, the tone, the eyes we’re allowed to see through. He’s making an observation. He sees Jay Gatsby.
Gatsby is the heart. He’s the almighty, all-loving man who cheated reality and created magic. He falls in love again. He thinks it’s with a woman, but that is as much of an illusion as he is.
A man who has constantly painted the same painting over and over again for the sole purpose of a single woman’s attention is in love. He is in love, but love is a force. It’s something we hold and place it into anything we desire. That love that was once for a woman is now turned to the art of painting that same painting and creating an illusion. Gatsby had taken the love he had for Daisy, his lover, and used it to paint this new picture. When Daisy finally took notice, she became nothing more but a concept to Gatsby. An inspiration, an illusion, a dream. The only thing palpable anymore was the painting.
What are we supposed to believe? Does reality happens in front of you or masquerades around you? That’s what Fitzgerald is dealing with himself. We are not at liberty to declare the truth because Fitzgerald is too enamored with the illusion to know himself. If we choose to make conclusions outside of what Fitzgerald’s thoughts have given, we have cheated him as a novelist and have produced something else.
The Great Gatsby is a product of seduction. The seduction of the city. The seduction of love. The seduction of consumerism and fantasy. It is that women in the twinkle of our eye that The Great Gatsby is all about.
We are meant to fall under that lust through Fitzgerald’s words; they seduce us and take us there. We are meant to be tricked. We are meant to fall in love with the illusion. Gatsby did, and he was great for that.
The Great Gatsby is a love story. It is a classic. It is a drug.
This book was my dad.