To this date, I haven’t read a novel with so many shoddy characters. However, the prosaic writing style of Fitzgerald makes even the valley of ashes alluring. I found myself drawn to the book like Nick Carraway to the American dream. Drawn to the person with the incorruptible dream and unflinching hope, who dared to live in the filth of material excesses grotesquely combined with shallow dreamers. Yes, I was so drawn to Jay Gatsby that if ever plausible I’d slap him hard! It enraged me, not the pursuit of idealized perfection of love by Gatsby, but for picking Daisy as a means to it, who neither possessed an iota of shame nor did she deserve the uncompromising love.

After the end of World War New York unearths itself in two parts: East egg and West egg. On the eastern side, Nick gauges the elegant and gracious life of Buchanans’. This aristocratic society considers itself superior because they have inherited money as a legacy, they are above their rising associates for the singular reason that they lack empathy. On the other hand, we have west egg, which is filled with the self-made, the ambitious and the dreamers; who wrestle inside their hearts to be apt for being worthy of the title ‘nobleman’.

Gatsby belongs to the west egg and throws extravagant parties with the sole hope that he would get to meet Daisy. Gatsby stands out of the crowd as he doesn’t consume any alcohol and watches the play unfold from a distance. Yet, the lack of social grace is visible when he has an exchange with Sloanes’. He takes their word as definitive when invited for lunch, overlooking the insincerity behind it. The pink suit and his evergreen phrase ‘old sport’ don’t serve much to the dismay of readers (though I loved it :P). When a force like Buchanans‘ and Gatsby collide due to some incomprehensible wisdom of destiny, we know where the currents are misguiding us. Gatsby’s passion and dignity make him suffer, whereas the selfishness of aristocrats allow them to disassociate with tragedies physically and even more so psychologically.

Throughout the story, we are under the scanning eyes of Dr. T.J.Eckleburg’s on a billboard; or wait, is he a God who just accommodates himself in an observant position to pass a judgment on American society? Or is the outright perception of a mere reader instilling a meaning into the insubstantiality of nothingness? If so, why is mother nature so attuned with Gatsby’s heart to change the weather accordingly ? Or is that a pathetic fallacy? Inside this array of simple bafflement , I suggest all kinds of readers to pick ‘The Great Gatsby’ and not be too focused on the green light of American dream.