The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

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Ah, Gatsby. Itβs been a moment. I last read this book in college, and although I remember the story, Iβm fairly sure I missed the point. It has been good for me to go back and reread these perennial classics that I thought I knew.
Here we have a true American tragedy, wrapped in social wit and irony, stewed in alcohol and disillusionment, where wealth, whether old or new, buys not love, but misery, where the strong moral values of the Midwest prove all too corruptible, where the very premise of the American Dream is nothing more than a cheat, a scam.
Other than maybe Gatsby, there isnβt a trustworthy or likeable character in the bunch. Ungrateful, snobbish, and vain, they look at people as novelties to play with and discard. Even Nick, our narrator, is cruel and two-faced. While her husband, Tom, is despicable, Daisy Buchanan is the real villain of this story. Her voice is full of money, Gatsby tells us. Not love, not empathy, not kindness. Money.
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