“The Great Gatsby” is important, of course, but it’s also all kinds of fun.
“The Great Gatsby,” F. Scott Fitzgerald’s tale of a tragic Long Island millionaire, was published 100 years ago to tepid reviews and disappointing sales. Since then, especially in the decades since World War II, it has become a staple of English classes and a fixture in popular culture. The novel has been memed, mocked, tweaked and reimagined countless times, a multifarious afterlife that I wrote about recently in The Times.
In my article, I explored some of the reasons for this longevity. But I didn’t focus on the most obvious one. In spite of what many critics of the 1920s thought, it’s a good book!
Let me be clear: I don’t mean a Great Book, though “Gatsby” may also be that. We tend to approach literary masterpieces in a spirit of deference and duty. They’re assigned in school or placed on authoritative lists of what we have to read before we die, which can be more off-putting than enticing. “The Great Gatsby” is profound and important, but it’s also all kinds of fun. Here are some of the kinds.
It’s a short, quick read.
At under 200 pages, “Gatsby” can be finished in the course of a rainy afternoon or a long plane ride. There’s a bit of wheel-spinning at the beginning, as our narrator, Nick Carraway, indulges in some philosophizing, but as soon as he mentions Jay Gatsby, whose name arrives in a cloud of mystery, glamour and foreboding, our interest is piqued. And Fitzgerald teases that interest, keeping the title character shrouded in an enigmatic aura until the very end of the book, revealing him — through Nick’s eyes — by means of a series of riddles, glimmerings and sideways glances.
It’s romantic.
Or at least Gatsby himself is. Nick describes him in the opening pages as possessing “some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life.” But modern life — crass, dishonest and materialistic — betrays those promises and destroys Gatsby’s life. Even though he’s a rich man with underworld connections, his motives remain pure. Above all, he’s driven by his love for Daisy, his former sweetheart, now married to the repellent Tom Buchanan. The tension between Gatsby’s noble spirit and the tawdry decadence of his surroundings brings the book to life. If Fitzgerald’s social criticism were less astute, the love story might seem corny; if the romance didn’t sing, the satire would collapse into cynicism.
It’s funny.
The Jazz Age reviewers who liked the book admired it as an acid-etched portrait of the times. Fitzgerald’s eye for hypocrisy and buffoonery and his ear for puffed-up speech remain sharp. Tom Buchanan, whose awfulness has a serious, violent side, is at the same time a brutally comic takedown of a certain kind of know-it-all blowhard, still familiar a century later:
“I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” Tom said genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun — or wait a minute — it’s just the opposite — the sun’s getting cooler every year.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald could write.
Almost too well! “Gatsby” often shifts from brisk comedy to swooning lyricism to philosophical rumination within the space of a single page, somehow keeping a steady, conversational, modern tone. Fitzgerald knows when to accelerate the narrative with clipped, telegraphic sentences and when to draw it out in flights of elaborate description. The last sentence (“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly back into the past”) is justly famous, but it follows a score of others that are at least as evocative, or even more so.
