Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
First Published: 1925, by Charles Scribner’s Sons
If ever there were a book about holding on to the past, The Great Gatsby is that book. How my heart goes out to Gatsby every time I see him reaching toward that faraway green light across the bay! The light of Daisy Buchanan, the light he’s kept burning all his life. But this book is about more than reaching back. It’s also a beautiful, harrowing, and detailed picture of The Jazz Age, a story about the tenacity of love/obsession, and not least a story about class warfare and resentment.
Fitzergerald is a master of style and metaphor, and my favorite trick of his is the creation of explosive description by way of casting aside the literal meaning of words. Take this sentence for instance:
The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound, was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
The moon’s reflection is a triangle of scales, rippling like the surface of a fish skin, trembling as if it were human. Accompanying the movement is the music from Gatsby’s party, pelleting the lawn with moisture. The banjos are dripping! Only Fitzgerald could turn music into raindrops so convincingly.
Here again, he maintains his watery theme, transforming moonlight into something damper—something capable of saturating clothes:
A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor.
And here, he levitates Tom and Daisy’s massive, foreboding house:
The Buchanan’s house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees.
I also love Fitzgerald for the relentless details he provides, details that transport you back to that roaring time and place. He plays Three O’Clock in the Morning for us, “a neat, sad little waltz of that year,” which dates the story to 1922; and lets the saxophones wail all night at Gatsby’s parties, “while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers [shuffle] the shining dust.”