[It’s back—the
very popular annual
post-Valentine’s non-favorites series, in which I AmericanStudy some of
those things that just don’t quite do it for me. Leading up to what is always
my most full and fun crowd-sourced
weekend post, so share your own non-favorites in comments, please!]
On the limits of
an unquestionably great novel, and how we can complement them.
First things
first, both out of respect to the many wonderful teachers and scholars I know
who love this book (including two of my favorite people, AmericanStudier
pére and the author of my recent Guest Post!) and because I certainly do
feel the same way: F.
Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
(1925) is, indeed, a great American novel. I don’t know if I can entirely agree
with Random House’s Modern Library,
who put it second on their list of the 100 Best Novels
of the 20th Century (it’s the only American novel in the top
three); that kind of slight overrating is part of what I’m responding to in
this post, I suppose. But there’s no doubt that Fitzgerald’s is that truly rare
novel which is both formally and aesthetically perfect (that structure! that
lyrical style! Nick’s
novelist-narrator narration!) and thematically rich and resonant, both
profoundly representative of its particular historical, social, and cultural
moment and milieu and yet able to connect with deeply universal human questions
and issues. If I were to make a list of 25 novels all Americans should read and
then talk about—as part of my idea of a national
Big Read, perhaps—The Great Gatsby
would definitely be in contention, and would probably make the final list.
So how the heck,
you might be wondering, can I start my annual non-favorites series with
Fitzgerald’s novel? Well, I will answer, the problem lies in his titular
protagonist, Jay Gatsby (neé James Gatz), and more precisely in Gatsby’s
motivations as a character. Gatsby has long been linked to the American Dream
(to the point where there was an indie rock band named Gatsby’s
American Dream), but his version of it seems so superficial: a nouveau rich
monstrosity of a mansion, must-attend parties where all the most famous current
celebrities can be seen, the adoration of all and sundry, and shady
business deals with known gangsters which help fund that lifestyle. And
when the curtain is pulled back and we learn the true motivation behind all of
that, I don’t know that it’s necessarily any deeper: yes, it’s the love of his
life; but a) that love is Daisy Buchanan, a complex character but one who overtly
and unquestionably symbolizes extreme wealth and privilege (“her voice is … made
of money,” Gatsby realizes at one point in the novel); and b) Gatsby only met and
loved and was loved by Daisy once he had already remade himself into an
imaginary man of extreme wealth and privilege in his own right, and he consistently
pursues her as that faux-person, rather than as James Gatz. You can certainly
argue that Fitzgerald wants us to analyze and critique these elements of his
title character, but they nonetheless to my mind represent profound limits of
Gatsby’s characterization, and especially of our ability to sympathize with him
(or, really, with any character in the novel, as all of them are implicated in
one way or another in the same issues).
None of that, to
be clear and to echo my opening paragraph, would comprise reasons not to read
Fitzgerald’s novel. But I would certainly argue that there are any number of early
20th century novels which offer distinct, and to my mind more meaningful
and broadly resonant, images and narratives of American Dreams. There’s Janey
in Zora
Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching
God (1937), searching for relationships (including romantic ones to be
sure) and communities where she can successfully be the strong black woman she
is. Or Irene and Clare in Nella
Larsen’s Passing (1929), two African
American women struggling with the question of whether and how to “pass” for
white in a society far too defined by race and color. Or Sara in Anzia
Yezierska’s Bread Givers (1925), trying
to balance her highly Orthodox Jewish father’s Old World demands with her
evolving life and goals as an ambitious young woman in New York City. Or Ántonia
in Willa
Cather’s My Ántonia (1918), an
immigrant woman battling the elements and social prejudices on the Nebraska
plains. Obviously it wouldn’t be possible to read all these books in place of
(for example) Gatsby’s frequent location
on syllabi—although of course groups of students could be assigned different
texts and then could come together to talk about similarities and differences.
Or even brief excerpts of each could be presented alongside Gatsby, to highlight and discuss the era’s
many distinct identities, communities, and dreams. In any case, all of these
works and characters importantly complement Fitzgerald’s novel, and could help
make our conversations about it more of a favorite for this AmericanStudier.
Next
non-favorite tomorrow,
Ben
PS. What do you
think? Takes on this non-favorite or others you’d share?
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