I think I can go as far to say that this is my favorite novel (probably tied with Harry Potter…). I have a hard time choosing favorites, but something about this one has always stuck with me. I first read in sophomore year in high school and it was the first classic novel I had ever really read and enjoyed. That was the starting spark for my true love of reading now. Plus, I just really enjoy the way the Fitzgerald writes. It’s intelligent without sounding pretentious.
I don’t really know what captures me about this story. Gatsby’s complete fascination and whole life poured into the past eventually contribute to his ruin. I think that’s something all people can relate to in some way. It’s so easy to live in the past because it’s known. There’s no way to change it, and that’s seemingly easier to deal with. But, you live a life trapped within yourself, never experiencing true joy.
I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool – that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.
Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At smaller parties there isn’t any privacy.
At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others – poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner – young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
Most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don’t in the beginning.
For a moment I thought I loved her. But I am slow-thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires.
There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.
No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
“Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
There was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.
There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind.
But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well forgotten dreams from age to age.
A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about.
I see now that this has been a story about the West after all, we were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
And of course I am ecstatic about the new movie coming out with none other that Leo playing Gatsby. Pretty much a dream come true. Here’s the wonderful trailer just for fun.