I briefly interrupt my regularly scheduled Bollywood to listen to The Great Gatsby, a book I read years ago and don’t remember at all, and which I took up again to prepare to a lecture that was, in fact, about Tender is the Night. Go figure. Mostly, I feel the same as I did when I first read the book – it defies me, like On the Road. I don’t get it. It faintly bores me. And yet...I read the end four times, the very end...
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — to-morrow we wi
ll run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning ——-
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
All by itself, that is some of the most beautiful and sad prose known to man.
By the way, Beirut’s The Flying Club Cup must be the perfect accompaniment: “a Sunday smile...we wore it for a while...”.
I may now go read that book about insanity and death.