“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”Before reading The Great Gatsby, I never knew the English language could be so beautiful. Jay Gatsby, the protagonist, meets the love of his life, Daisy, as a soldier, but loses her to a wealthier rival named Tom Buchanan who happens to be a Class A arschloch, as the Germans would say. Gatsby strives to be as rich as Tom in order to win Daisy back, but he doesn’t realize that, maybe, it’s too late.
The Great Gatsby’s beauty lies in its execution. Fitzgerald’s prose is whimsical and surreal. It conjured gentle but dark images in my mind.
The novel is pervaded with an impending sense of doom. I knew that something awful was going to happen, but it still shocked me nonetheless—even if the events flawlessly came together in a figurative train wreck.
I marveled at the unfairness of it all. I’ve been taught from a very young age that if I work hard I’ll eventually be rewarded. The opposite happened to the protagonist Jay Gatsby. It broke my heart because I realized that it could happen to me too.
But that’s not the only reason why I felt sorry for Jay Gatsby. The other reason’s name is Daisy Buchanan. While reading, I kept thinking, “No, Daisy, you skanky ho without a backbone. No.” At the end of the novel, I wanted to throttle her. My figurative feminist hackles were supposed to rise up, because there were no decent female characters in The Greay Gatsby (we discussed it in class, yawn), but I didn’t care.
In essence, The Great Gatsby spoke the truth and broke down all my optimistic ideals about life. What is life, after all? A brief moment that passes us by because we’re too caught up in the past? The Great Gatsby left that question imprinted in my brain.