I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day.
When you live alone in a feudal mansion, with gardens spuming the sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate, how do you mask the inescapable stink of loneliness? What pulsating energy could pierce the hardened cocoon of disaffection to warm a heart made cold with mysterious wealth?
There’s no better distraction than the whirling carnival of people crashing a party where everyone and no one really belongs. Let the folly of others be a movie for which you’ll gladly douse your illumination in favor of sitting in the dark with your attention devoted to anyone else’s story, anyone at all so long as it isn’t you. If the others are just interesting enough, perhaps they can be elevated to a celebrity that attracts the curiosity of those who can be fulfilled by nothing more than being hopelessly curious about a celebrity. Then you can be alone with many birds of a feather, packed together in a frenzy of distance, locked in a solemn vow never to connect. It’s best that way for everyone involved.
Gatsby couldn’t be sure that Daisy would be interested in him. He hardly knew what he was himself, consisting of no substance other than blindered ambition. He had no sensical idea of what an interesting person could be, other than to accept the judgment of others conferring the crown of celebrity. So he filled his house with interesting people, celebrated people, all gathered to have the time of their lives, or at least avoid the fear of missing out.
Daisy went upstairs to wash her face – too late I thought with humiliation of my towels – while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
This is a beautiful bit of technique, I just want to deconstruct it very carefully. We’ve just come out of one of the most emotionally intense moments in the book, the reunion of Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan, the goal of Gatbsy’s years-long quest finally realized. This scene has taken place off-stage, from narrator Nick’s perspective, as he departed his own house in order to give the couple privacy. So Nick has been standing in the rain on his modest little lawn for half an hour, the lawn that Nick had allowed to grow shaggy and unkempt until that morning, when Gatsby had sent his landscaper around for a proper mowing.
Now Nick re-enters his house to see Daisy’s face shining with happy tears, Gatsby relaxed and composed where before the meeting he’d been a nervous wreck. Whatever happened in that half hour had been full of painful joy. Daisy goes to clean up, the men wait. Such a simple action, it could have passed by without any further flourish. But Fitzgerald takes this opportunity to show us the reflexive thought that enters Nick’s head, a simple and true statement that he’s embarrassed that he forgot to do something about his dingy towels in the upstairs bath. It reveals the kind of person Nick is, his class concerns, the ever-present impulse of self-judgment that resides within him as surely as his heartbeat.
The narrative of this novel is about Gatsby and Daisy, but the genius of it is that the story is about Nick. We learn nearly nothing about the interior lives of the purported main couple. But we learn everything about Nick in these stealthily delivered injections of perspective.
While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little, now and then, with gusts of emotion.
After those first awkward moments before Gatsby regains his composure, Nick tactfully leaves his own home and stands outside in the inclement weather, taking shelter under ‘a huge black knotted tree whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain,‘ while Daisy and Gatsby negotiate their sudden reacquaintance. Fitzgerald makes the clever choice to leave the most emotionally charged moments unobserved, and so undescribed by our unreliable narrator – which makes these moments more elemental and enduring, mysterious events like the weather itself. The storm is more powerful for having been unseen, its aftermath the best evidence of its power. Gatsby relays Nick’s obvious news that the rain has ended, and her response has nothing to do with the weather.
‘I’m glad, Jay.’ Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.
He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach and opening the door cautiously went back into the other room.
In just this moment, Gatsby ends the only few minutes of the entire story where he is not composed and fully in control of himself. All he needed was for Nick to remind him that Daisy was embarrassed too, and a gentleman wouldn’t leave a lady alone and embarrassed in any situation.
The feelings of other people are always more real to them than any feelings you can have for them – remembering this is the key to maintaining emotional composure; this is both a pillar of support and a tool of manipulation, depending on how it’s used.
Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself.
Overwhelming events can cause a mental freeze in the participants. The mind races to absorb the inflow of sights, sounds and emotions, but the cascade of signals piles up into a mass of unintelligible phenomena, the mind freezes and loses fine-grained control of the body. In this situation, the most important thing to do is: anything. Take any action to break the freeze, preferably one that is productive to the moment or at least not wholly inappropriate.
Gatsby, Nick and Daisy are locked in an excruciatingly awkward social moment, but all it takes is some cups and cakes to break the freeze.
Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
This sounds like a description of a man at a funeral, rather than a man on the doorstep to a reunion with his lost love. Fitzgerald never describes what Gatsby is thinking or feeling, but instead describes his trembling hands, distraught eyes, the tense bearing of his ‘strained counterfeit of perfect ease.’ The economy of writing here paints a lush landscape of emotion with spare strokes of perfect detail. The thoughts that are not described imbue the scene with their heavy absence.
The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain.
Daisy’s voice is her defining feature. Is there another character in all of literature whose physical beauty is conveyed so much by sound rather than sight? With subtle mastery, Fitzgerald elevates his prose anytime he describes her voice – he brings tonality and life into his writing to simulate the intoxicating effect of Daisy’s voice on the listener. Fitzgerald’s writing is cinematic, and this technique of surrounding a detail with vibrant prose is like dramatic lighting on a closeup of a beautiful face.
I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone before any words came through. A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car.
To hear her voice is to love her, as long as her warm breath vibrates in the air. Like the sound of her voice, this love is temporary and fragile, but rich and real and irresistible in the moment.