What I don’t know is how long it takes her. I know of someone-a well-heeled white woman in her midsixties-who reads this book every year. In a day, you reach those closing words about the boats, the current, and the past, and rather than allow them to haunt, you simply return to the first page and start all over again. After all, The Great Gatsby is a classic of illusions and delusions. In a day, you no longer have to wonder whether Daisy loved Gatsby back or whether “love” aptly describes what Gatsby felt in the first place. Wolfsheim, shame on you, sir Gatsby was your friend. In one day, you can sit with the brutal awfulness of nearly every person in this book-booooo, Jordan just boo. Only in this most recent time did I choose to attack it in a single sitting. Otherwise, all the mystery seeps away, leaving Jay Gatsby lingering, ethereal but elusive, like cologne somebody else is wearing. It should be consumed in the course of a day.
Why do we keep reading The Great Gatsby? Why do some of us keep taking our time reading it? F.
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