"You always look so cool," she said.

Get to know me: I suck at puzzles. I think it's a patience thing. Which is weird, because it's not like I have a short attention span. In fact, I have a brilliant attention span. If I hadn't been working on my undergrad and needed to eat and commute and things, I'm fairly sure I would have finished Mists of Avalon in one sitting. Plus, reading is one of two superpowers--but more on that later.

It's fairly ironic that I suck at puzzles, because sometimes my brain seems like one. I don't know what the puzzle is of (probably an awesome piece of art by James C. Christensen, of Voyage of the Basset fame).

I'm actually fairy royalty. That's what the puzzle is trying to tell me.
Go look up what "Shae" means. Tell me I'm wrong.

Anyway. I digress. Where was I? Brain's a puzzle. Right. It really is, though. And every so often, a book comes along that is a piece of that puzzle. It fits so well and makes so much sense that it dazzles me, quite literally. The current bedazzlement is coming from none other than Fitgerald's Great American Novel, The Great Gatsby.

Like many of you, I read Gatsby in high school for my Honors English class, and I liked it fine. I wasn't one of the people who out-and-out hated it, because I was well-read and fairly mature for my age. But it pays to go back and re-read the things that you read in high school, because you miss a lot when you're 15 or 16, have had minimal world experience, and your hormones and need for sleep are probably trying to kill you.

College, and majoring in English helped me appreciate the art of F. Scott's prose/characterization/symbol use. It's good. Brilliant, actually. And I know lots of you probably complained about the heavyhandedness of the Eyes of God looking out over the characters from their place on the billboard and that damn green light at the end of Daisy's dock, come on Fitzgerald, did you really mean for things to be interpreted that way? Are you trying to make my life hell listening to my teacher go on and on about this stuff? How about NO. 

I get it. I was a little put out by all that, too. Yes. Me. An English student. Just because I'm a creative writer doesn't mean I enjoy interpreting symbols.

No, that's a lie. I do. I really, really do. I'm not ashamed. I have a nerd flag and I fly it freely.

College and minoring in sociology helped me look at the socioeconomic commentary, as well as the way that capitalism can have hugely negative effects on people. And Fitz uses symbols to illustrate this point.

Back up two paragraphs. Remember that thing I said about actually liking symbol interpretation? Yeah.

*symbol interpretation ahead*

Let's take Daisy. And, for that matter, let's take the green light at the end of her dock. They represent the same thing: the American Dream (which Fitzgerald also calls "foul dust"--so for all you Daisy haters out there, you aren't really supposed to like her. Or, in the words of John Green, "not in the uncomplicated way you like cupcakes"). The American Dream is, in summary: work hard, gain lucre, be rich, be happy.

Gatsby, by most standards, has achieved the American Dream when we meet him. He's throwing parties and living in a big mansion, but he's definitely new money, and new money is definitely not as impressive as Old Money, even here in the states with our de facto aristocracy. So in a sense, he's still working to achieve it--getting Daisy would represent having "made it."

If you haven't read the Great Gatsby, shame on you, go read it now, and don't read further. Spoilers.

I think the fact that Daisy represents the American Dream and Tom represents the capitalists makes the ending all the uncomfortably poignant. Nick says:

“They were careless people, Tom and Daisy- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”

And, taking into account the fact that they indirectly get Gatsby killed, and the fact that the Great Depression began only a few years after this novel takes place, doesn't that seem pertinent? In fact, doesn't it seem pertinent today? The Depression and the Recession forever changed the lives of many American citizens--maybe nothing as drastic as getting shot in a swimming pool, but you know what I'm saying. Fitz was definitely not a fan of the American Dream. And he wasn't wrong to be cynical of it. 

I could go on and on, and on. Seriously. There's so much about this novel that warrants talking about--the Valley of Ashes, more of the language...but I won't. I've talked a lot already. 

Finally, I want to talk about Gatsby. I relate most not to the ethereal Daisy, but to Gatsby. Gatsby is hopeful. Gatsby looks at a green light at the end of a dock across the bay and dreams of bringing back the past, the way it should have been. 

I'll admit freely to looking at a faraway likelihood and dreaming of a certain outcome. Which is why I agree with John Green when he says, "'People used to come to Gatsby's parties and sneer bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of his liquor,'--let me submit to you that those of us that sneer at Gatsby do so on the courage of his liquor, because we all share his ambition."

And you know what? I do share his ambition. Maybe not to achieve the American Dream, not in the sense that I want to be rich and throw giant parties and never drink any of my own liquor or use my own swimming pool. But I've looked at the green light at the dock across the bay, and thought about what it would take to reach that goal. Dreamed about reaching that goal. Hoped.

Proof that even cynics hope. Or, at least, this one does. I can't help it.  It's woven in the fabric of my being. Maybe it was getting raised on all those Jane Austen novels, but you'd think I would have learned by now that hope is just as likely to hurt you as help you.

But I haven't given up on hope yet. And you know what? I hope I never do.

and Tom Buchanan is an Asshat.