From the world of "The Great Gatsby", amongst the lush pomp and pageantry, lays a figure so utterly insignificant that he's almost forgotten. And I say almost, because he never fails to remind us of his unfailingly entertaining, hypocritically ironic "judgments" which behold the entrance to this novel at the turn of the century. From iconic lines which absorb all that choose to enter its world, it is truly Gatsby's green light which enthrals readers, giving him a pitifully ambitious yet simultaneously lovelorn admirability, which no other crook has captured within our hearts as of yet.
All this, as one Mr Carraway indeed becomes something which "represents everything for which I have unaffected scorn" (a quote I have grown to love and cherish). But, in this role, I do not completely blame him. Fitzgerald became his own muse, and Nick, a fragment of the world in which he resided and occupied as a shell of a human being, became a spectator for the masses; masses who can only hope to reach those glory filled days of the lost generation, who can dream of their freedom and psychotically boozy parties filled with lust-fuelled madness, transforming his once seemingly cherished memories into a confused, misty haze of disappointment and class confinement. Ultimately, imprisonment of the worst kind as his American Dream splintered even further, as he observed the able willingness of the filthy rich to simply pack up and pillage, and enact ruin elsewhere - anywhere of their choosing. The world was their oyster, whilst the sullen, tawny Midwest again began beckoning to Nick. The world crushed his oyster and served it back to him on a platter with a singular human molar, plated alongside the finest drink money could buy - the bloody pool water in which Gatsby perished, with the stench of Tom Buchanan's meddlesome fury lingering around the whole meal as a grim yet inevitably unavoidable scent, and oddly, an aftertaste. All this, sat atop a table adorned with pearls and feathers, with champagne of the finest kind just serving a facade of being within reach. But all undrinkable, and most importantly (or perhaps not) unreachable, which is why he disappointedly, and desperately yet un-yearningly planned his return to the sleepy Midwest, away from the glamour and excitement of his Long Island endeavours as a neighbour, stalker, and pastime watcher of Gatsby; the object of his desires, perhaps even his affection.
Despite growing tired of Gatsby's delusional antics vis-a-vis Daisy, or rather, what she represented, our voyeuristic gaze of the entire situation through Nick's eyes almost gives us an ironically, eerily out of body experience, as we are able to internalise Nick's "[reserving of] judgments", and also distinguish them from our own, since we recognise his unreliability as a narrator. This ergo puts readers in the unique situation of being able to ascertain aspects of Nick's inner sanctum, as he unintentionally exposes his persona to us in moments of vulnerability or even simply within dramatic moments in which you'd never expect to focus on anything aside from the actual content of them. Surprisingly enough, the second or third time that you read over them (because there's simply too much to absorb), the focus begins to shift from the face value representation, the intentions of the other characters, to the perspective of the onlooker; Nick, and why he views these situations the way that he does.
"Nick" by Michael Farris Smith afforded an insight into Nick's life before he officially became a member of the lost generation; his time spent serving (and struggling) in the army during the First World War, his Paris fling(s), and his ability to simply drift about and around, without any particular purpose or ambition, simply trying to find his own and run away from himself (funny, since it became the very thing he began to scorn and mock, yet not quite, in his significantly wealthier counterparts within the sequel). But I think there's a fatal flaw; Fitzgerald in never having been posted to the international fronts which were more central to the War, and actually saw life-changing combat, failed to make Nick the distinguished, judgmental yet unfailingly-so war veteran he perhaps intended to. Nick's desire to travel and run away from his home was embodied in the chaotic, arsonist, revenge-driven prequel. It was messy, heartbreaking, ambiguous, yet provided a certain clarity as to why Nick was seldom party to the action; more of an observer than an actual participant, a bystander in the mess of Gatsby's exciting life driven by the chase and desperation for acceptance into something of which he would and could never truly become a member. Nonetheless, I still think it was problematic for Fitzgerald to create Nick as a veteran character, because his lack of want to participate in the hazy flurries of Gatsby's regal mimicry and his renowned parties, makes him almost as much as an outsider as Mr Nobody from Nowhere. However, it does explain and justify his admiration and attraction to the way in which Jay liked to portray himself, and the way he is able to sympathise, find likenesses, and even fathom what one could perhaps could call love, towards Gatsby.
Nick isn't unlikeable, he's confusing, and that is precisely what makes him human. We label him as unlikeable because of this trait in particular - everyone else is almost a "stock" character from a commedia dell'arte-esque performance when compared to Nick, which makes their purpose far easier to comprehend. Nick is the only one we are unable to truly understand (alongside his purpose) - he is judgmental, funny, dry, yet also confused; chasing something which he hasn't truly understood within himself ( also apart from himself), attempting to run away from his traumatic past and his one serious Parisian romance, far from the dreamy and lush ones matching the passionate likes of Newland Archer and the wonderfully foreign (to bland Americans) Ellen Olenska (really just "exotically" European). Nick is disappointed with the trajectory of his life, his boring ancestry (which he attempts to disguise, rather poorly, with his vague articulation from his cream of the crop ivy-league education) which is only emphasised within Farris-Smith's spectacular novel. It's nonetheless disappointing for readers to see the character we don't grow to love, but rather sympathise with, as he seems to give up hope in his own American Dream (since it's what Gatsby's murder represented - the unwillingness of the then-decaying American elite to accept outsiders, and their inability in this aspect foreshadowing their own grisly demise).
Fitzgerald then becomes a fragment of his own novel, as he places pieces of himself and his lived life within both Nick and Gatsby (and Tom Buchanan, but that's really a discussion for another time) - from his failed pursuit of Ginevra King, to his eventual acquisition of "prize" golden woman of the roaring twenties Zelda Sayre, to his alleged homoerotic affair with fellow author Hemingway, not to mention his plagiarism of Sayre's personal diary, specifically the iconic line known to all lovers of literature, "I hope she'll be a fool—that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool". It seems nothing markedly dislikable about Nick then; perhaps my conclusion here can be that in this specific instance, it is impossible to separate the art from the artist. As a self-proclaimed logophile with a fixation on literature in particular (be it prose or poetry), it is undeniable that Fitzgerald's words flow off the page, not just within "The Great Gatsby", but another favourite, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", as well as "Bernice Bobs Her Hair", and "Head and Shoulders". There's a spark in his writing which Hemingway's, or other authors of his age simply do not match - this spark is captured in the very essence of Nick's account, and is embodied within all three characters - Nick, Gatsby, and Tom.
What I set out to write then, was simply a critique of Farris-Smith's complete portrayal of Nick's life before it was completely upturned - I truly think making him a war veteran conflicts with his hesitancy to truly mingle with either the nouveau-riche of East Egg or old money of West Egg, but perhaps that is simply an ode to his somewhat simple and humble Midwestern roots, and the fact that he truly is an outsider providing us a glance into this novel. Do we see him as a person, or a character? This is the issue faced by all readers of just about any worthy fiction (I simply must include a tangible standard of fiction due to the surge in tacky romance novels written by despots such as Colleen Hoover, whom I hold such an ardent hatred for, that I endeavour to write on it at some point) - first introduced me when I read Helen Gardner's critical appreciation of Shakespeare's "Hamlet". I think nowadays we rather fail to distinguish between the necessity of the characters within our novels as 2D creations, instead of humanising them to an extent at which it becomes difficult to understand and sympathise with their sometimes singular purpose (be it as plot-fillers, mere foils, etc). However, I truly feel that Fitzgerald intended for us to overlook this dilemma, not least because the metaphors are so glaringly obvious (yes, authors really do think about each and every aspect including the symbolism of colours when furiously and passionately penning down thought upon thought), but also because of the nature of the novel itself. Gatsby is a piece of art that has gone unmatched for so long that I am beginning to doubt any other author can match its charm, charisma, critique of contemporary society so elegantly as to capture the very essence of our own chase for something greater, bigger than ourselves, which we cannot exactly pinpoint (if ever). Only ever characterised and possibly articulated as more. Bigger, better, and more; greed. What was Nick's purpose? To lead us through the novel and embody our own sympathies with Gatsby's demise, as the moment a single drop of his blood fell into that pool he became the one Mr Nobody From Nowhere, a forgotten face, never once credited for the empire he built on the back of bootlegging, and very likely upon the blood of others? Or was his purpose to absolve our own guilt at liking Gatsby so much as to make him the victim in a story which bore his name, in spite of his moral crimes (if any, and completely ignoring the blatant illegality of his actions)?
Gatsby could not have been a villain, because then Nick would also undeniably have been (though he could also absolve any guilt pointing in this particular direction, since he was never an enthusiastic participant, merely an admirer from afar, unwillingly dragged into these woefully beautiful antics) - and that would simply be too much for readers. I end on the note that Nick is a hypocrite; in his chase for something more, perhaps simply some excitement, his spirit is crushed, and his faith in humanity and the very idea of the American Dream lost, and he ends up exactly where he started. Nick is the common man; he is us - a stark reminder that human nature is the most hypocritical of all, and this brings me back to one of the first lines of this novel; that he is "inclined to reserve all judgements", but never truly does, not once. Because without his judgements, we would not have the novel at all; perspective cannot be separated from judgement, and I will not even attempt to purport a distinction between the two, because it is impossible. Nick's only flaw is his humanity, and in this, his ability to become forgettably unforgettable - even in an attempt to make him the focus of this piece, Jay Gatsby's magnetic charm is unavoidable, as is the ruthlessness of Tom and Daisy in simply packing up a chapter in their lives (pun unintended) which will soon become a smooth little dinner-party tidbit, as they continue their path of inevitably deathly destruction.
And this, is where I shall end, imploring you (if you have not already) to read one of the greatest books of all time.
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