how old were you when you accepted this was a masterpiece?
i disliked this in grade 8
i hated it in 10th grade
and i acted like I was above it in university
reading it now ... it's an obvious masterpiece
(maybe this is an argument for not teaching great and complex works of literature in highschool? it'll just turn people off them...)
>i disliked this in grade 8
>i hated it in 10th grade
>and i acted like I was above it in university
>reading it now ... it's an obvious masterpiece
This was literally me but with Catcher in the Rye.
Currently had to read it for an assignment. Not gonna lie, at first I was interested, half way through I despised it and by the end I glorified it.
The prose and story are beyond anything I had expected but I gotta say, the dialogue (and certain scenes like the dinner at the first chapter) leave little to be desired.
Currently reading this for the first time. It's absolutely cancerous, I've enjoyed John Green more. Swear to me it gets better than being nothing more than bitchy whining and the repetition of every other phrase.
Bored by it in 8th grade grew into it 11th grade.
I wonder how influenced by The Great Gatsby Pynchon was. I wouldn't underestimate it. The way cleverness is an absolute priority to the narration and the sense of enigma that Pynchon took to a completely differently level by not answering his own mystery resemble Fitzgerald's voice. I don't think a true fan of The Crying of Lot 49 could dislike The Great Gatsby.
I loved it as soon as I read it. I was only sixteen and read it over the summer, the year before we were required to at my high school.
Later that next school year, my teacher was out sick during our class discussion and the subsitute had no clue what the book was even about. So, I ended up having to teach the entire class why the book was such a masterpiece and connect it to their own lives. About half the class listened as I tried to keep a room full of bored teenagers interested in it for an hour. Nobody else talked the entire time.
Granted, I did think that I changed some opinions about the book, so it may have been worth it.
I accepted it was a masterpiece back when I first read it, but I didn't care for it much. Now I go back and read it and I come away with the feeling that Gatsby was the most fake of all the characters, Tom was genuine, and Daisy was far smarter than Nick or anyone else seems to realize.
It's great and Fitzgerald was the perfect one to write it because he was deranged and deluded in similar ways as his characters are.
I recommend Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast", it's a good read in general but especially for the long section describing Hemingway getting angry with Fitzgerald's insane high maintenance hijinks.
It's autobiographical masturbation and I've never seen any other than historic value to it.
Also never gotten around to Catcher in the Rye, my high school (mid-80s) let us skip some "classics" in favor of other literature.
I had more or less the same experience as you.
In my adult reading of it, I was struck not only by the quality of the prose, but also how ahead of its time it was. his seems to have been the style that everyone else followed. In that sense it's like Citizen Kane; the impact of the groundbreaking quality is lessened because it influenced everything that came after, we're used to it now. and yet, like Kane, it's still a fantastic work judged against the work that's followed.
I'm rereading it now. I always kinda liked Fitzgerald bit after reading a lot of prose and poetry from a few pages I'm already seeing just how fucking well written this book is. Nick's personality just floods everything over high-beams. Reminds me a bit of Moby-Dick in that sense so far.
>how old were you when you accepted this was a masterpiece?
What's so great about story that is about a guy who had to spend time with an adulterer and his ditzy slut wife and some rich cück who finally got laid by the said adulterer's ditzy slut wife?
I realised it was utter trite at the tender age of 25.
It's the Citizen Kane of /lit/, appears as mature but really it's just of juvenile substance that takes itself too seriously. There's a reason it's read in school.
I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life
The ending was garbage, laughable.
>Now that G is dead, I will host the funeral! I must!
>I'm calling his friends to inform them! They must know!
>Huh? You can't come to the funeral? Huh?
>Surely the next person must show up! I am confident about this!
>Huh? Really? You also can't come? But how's that? Weren't you always there at his parties? Huh: BIG surprise!
>Oh boy, he always had such big parties with so many people there. I can't believe it! It's very SAD :'(
>Only his papa and I are here, he hands me a note it's so sad omg
So forced, just silly.
First time I read the book. In grade 11. A great author is one that not only write well so they stay interested but so that the reader is constantly interested. and this book does this, with fantastic story, the movie is also great!
this part at the end of chapter 6 blew me away
He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was. . . .
. . . One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees — he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.
Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something — an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.
I don't think many people even really get what it's about. It's not about Gastby's obsessive love for Daisy; it's about a disillusionment with the American Dream, and how capitalism influenced Gatsby's position: his rise and fall.
This book is very much overrated. I appreciated it a great deal in college and highschool, and then I moved to NYC/Long Island, and realized people really just act this way, and it hasnt changed.
I think you've misrepresented my idea here. I was implying that your highly rating a thing that is shit makes you a conformist (and as an aside, popular things aren't the only things that are shit. >You, for instance, are not popular)
I remember when I was in high school we read chunks of Jacopo Ortis, I did not understand it, I mocked it.
Then years later we were studying Foscolo and thus I decided to read it on my own, I loved it, so I see where you are coming from and agree.
Jacopo Ortis is an awesome book, better than Werther, because Jacopo also deals with the struggle of a man aware that his home lacks an identity and his inhabitants dont care.
I read it now as I am 22 for the first time, but I found it bland, I dont like the protagonist, the prose gets boring after a while, I hear teenager's rants as it is right now.
I enjoyed it. I got assigned the book in 10th grade. Afterwards it was on everyone's Facebook. Every would be well read faggot (mostly girls in truth) readily claimed it was their new favorite book and extolled it as the American classic that it is, better even than Goosebumps or even the Harry Potter books. I never mentioned my thoughts to anyone, but once made the mistake of probing my peers their purported appreciation of Gatsby in class. It was comical to say the least. Can a novel be over recognized but under appreciated?
you mean they could not convey what mesmerised them about it?
It is no wonder then, for very often one finds himself unable to describe even what he/she thought he/she knew.
Did I misunderstood?
The book is about marriage. The entire purpose of the book is to break down the form of marriage. The outward degeneracy of Gatsby's parties are a cover for the inward degeneracy of his "romantic feelings", for his "romantic feelings" are really just him refusing to accept that his old beloved is married and therefore forbidden. Daisy's husband is portrayed as an oaf whereas Gatsby is portrayed as a sensitive romantic soul. The subversive notion being that faithfulness to romantic feelings is higher than the faithfulness of marriage.
Gatsby suffers from its own fame. Because it's been forced into the American canon you have people ranting on and on about the symbolism instead of appreciating the niceties of the work. It's a strange book managing to be popular with both the lowest common denominator of literary thought and actual literati.
That might be one explanation, but I'd hazard they've read maybe 3 actual books and that this is their first foray into actual reading they are both impressed and looking to impress. I've nothing but disdain for people who claim to like the Great Gatsby depending almost entirely on their age group.
the book itself is a bit cliche social commentary. If you read it for that it's a bit forced like you point out. Gatsby reaching out to the Green Light alternates between mythical symbolistic power and pure silliness.
But if you read it for the point of discovering the intricacies of Nick Carraway -- how he sees things, how his jazzy romantic swagger fades throughout the novel, how he quickly judges everything and subtly forces himself out of this mode -- then it's actually a very good book. Nobody seems to read it for the latter reason. Nick is a work of genius but I can't speak as fondly for the rest.
>implying Nick doesn't just seem romantic and different because he's a repressed faggot and doesn't quite fit in as such, except for when he bangs that painter dude while drunk
It was forced into the cultural fabric, there was an actual concerted effort to convince everyone of and institutionalize the book's greatness and American-ness. Why I don't know, maybe people were just desperate to establish some kind of American canon.
>maybe people were just desperate to establish some kind of American canon
This shows. In this, and in the whole obsession with "The Great American Novel", too. Literally no other country in the world does this. Let's not even mention the constant whining re: not getting more Nobels. No, there's no maybe about it.
>Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier I followed.
>"Come to lunch some day," he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.
>"Keep your hands off the lever," snapped the elevator boy.
>"I beg your pardon," said Mr. McKee with dignity, "I didn't know I was touching it."
>"All right," I agreed, "I'll be glad to."
>. . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in >his hands.
>"Beauty and the Beast . . . Loneliness . . . Old Grocery Horse . . .Brook'n Bridge . . . ."
>Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning "Tribune" and waiting for the four o'clock train.
I never picked up that Nick was a fruit the first time, and now I wonder how that's even possible.