Book Review: The Not-So-Great Gatsby
I’m probably one of the more avid readers that I know, devouring about a book a week in a good month. I recently decided that for every bestseller (read: brain junk food) I read, I needed to balance my mental diet with something a bit more substantial. If you consider "The Da Vinci Code" to neatly straddle the line between both worlds, please stop reading now.
In the literary morass that was my high school and college education, I read more than my fair share of “classics”. Some, it seemed to me, were far more deserving of that accolade than others. "The Grapes of Wrath", "To Kill a Mockingbird", and "Animal Farm" inspired me and made me think about and question my views of the world. On the other hand, "My Antonia" and "Red Badge of Courage" made me want to stab my eyes out by page 20.
Somehow, one “classic” novel managed to never pop up on any of my reading lists or syllabi: "The Great Gatsby". That’s right, someone as (supposedly) well-read as I am made it through primary and secondary education without reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great American novel. I’d heard of it, of course, and figured it was good in that same vague way you figure opera is awesome, compelling art but have no intention of ever seeing one. However, with my new resolve to work great literary pieces into my reading rotation, last week I proudly walked out of the local library with Fitzgerald’s thin tome tucked under my arm. I figured it would be a quick, enjoyable way to start on the road to intellectual pretentiousness. There was just one little hiccup, though.
It sucks. "The Great Gatsby" sucks. There's no getting around it. I HATED it. From its mind-numbingly dull beginning to its bizarre murder-suicide finale, there wasn’t a single drop of literary value to be had in its pages. I kept reading and reading and telling myself, “Surely something that justifies “classic” is going to pop up any time now.” Alas, it was not to be. Teachers and professors who rhapsodize about its merits and deep significance are liars. Deluded, deceived, deranged LIARS, I tell you! Literati who sing its praises and laud its profundity are fools. If the book hadn’t been the prized property of the Orem Public Library, I would have given its precious pages to my year-old nephew and let him have his way with it. Such is the fate an abomination like "The Great Gatsby" deserves.
With such a rocky start, I am now seriously rethinking my “classics” aspirations. Anyone have an extra copy of "Angels and Demons"?
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