As I write this, I’m still not quite sure how I feel about The Great Gatsby. Specifically, I’m caught between the two related, but ultimately different questions I ask about every book I read: (1) Is it good? and (2) Did I like it? When it comes to literary merits, there is no question that The Great Gatsby is a good book. It is thematically rich, Gatsby’s “rags to riches” backstory, glamor, and mannerisms are truly iconic, and Fitzgerald packs a punch, particularly in his writing of tragedy. The argument between Gatsby, Tom, and Daisy hits perfectly, as does the slow unveiling of Gatsby’s origin story. I was really impressed by Fitzgerald’s ability to gradually peel back the layers on Gatsby by taking the perfect gentleman archetype, surrounding him in gossip and half-truths, and then completely unmasking him in a way that made him more relatable, tragic, and sympathetic.
However, The Great Gatsby didn’t leave nearly the impression I expected. The imagery within this book, such as the green light and the parties, has been stamped in culture for a century, so maybe my expectations were too high, but I didn’t really feel immersed in Gatsby and Daisy’s romance, and even the parties fell a bit flat. After reading Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises earlier this year, I’m wondering if this generation’s spare prose and preoccupations with their interwar anxieties are just not to my taste and feel a bit too inaccessible. I suppose I wanted the novel to be as grand as the persona of Jay Gatsby himself.
Ultimately, I liked and appreciated The Great Gatsby, even if I didn’t love it or particularly relate to it.
The Once and Future Lit 