Title: The Great Gatsby
Author: Francis Scott Fitzgerald
Jay Gatsby is the man who has everything. But one thing will always be out of his reach. Everybody who is anybody is seen at his glittering parties. Day and night his Long Island mansion buzzes with bright young things drinking, dancing, and debating his mysterious character. For Gatsby---young, handsome, and fabulously rich---always seems alone in the crowd, watching and waiting, though no one knows what for. Beneath the shimmering surface of his life he is hiding a secret: a silent longing that can never be fulfilled. And soon this destructive obsession will force his world to unravel
If I hadn't watched the movie, If I hadn't already known how this story ends - I'd enjoy this book so much more. But unfortunately, because of the above - it was dragging for me. It's a fairly quick read but I couldn't finish it. Besides, I couldn't stop picturing Gatsby as Leonardo Dicaprio in my head. Fitzgerald's style of writing is delightful, full of metaphors, aesthetically pleasing comparisons and other linguistic ornaments. The portrayal of the main characters was equally amazing. Gatsby's complex and blind pursuit of love, of a dream, of a woman. And Daisy, extremely enigmatic and equally disappointing with her cynicism and shallowness. But I've made one discovery while reading this book, something that I couldn't quite understand in the movie. Why is Gatsby so great? Or why is he called great? The answer is very simple: the narrative. This story is told from the perspective of one man who admired Gatsby, his optimism, all his grand achievements, and perseverance. It's not only a story of an unfinished love but also a story of joys and pleasures associated with the 'American dream'. Oh, I so wish I had read the book before I saw the movie.
“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.
“Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For awhile these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy's wing.”
“In his blue gardens, men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.”
And so, I have read 1/12 books of the Back to The Classics Challenge!