Everyone knows I am a certified The Great Gatsby glazer. So going into this novel, while I expected it to be enjoyable (I wouldn't read it otherwise!), I definitely didn't expect it to be anywhere near as good as TGG. And even though it wasn't, I was pleasantly surprised that it was better than I expected.
First of all, I'll talk about the part of this novel that I undoubtedly loved the best: its prose! The language used, the writing style, the flow of the sentences. Genuinely perfect. I had such a fun time reading it that sometimes it wasn't even about the story itself or the characters, I was just in awe of the vivid descriptions and vocabulary. Fitzgerald has one of those writing styles that I am terribly envious of. Its poetic without ever being boring or slow or too dense. Unimaginably beautiful.
Of course in the same vein the dialogue is similarly effective. Sometimes witty and brief, banter between two or more characters (I quite liked the chapters where it was written like a screenplay, with mostly just dialogue) but also sometimes monologues. But always interesting.
"I've got a streak of what you'd call cheapness. I don't know where I get it but it's—oh, things like this and bright colors and gaudy vulgarity. I seem to belong here. These people would appreciate me and take me for granted, and these men would fall in love with me and admire me, whereas the clever men I meet would just analyze me and tell me I'm this because of this or that because of that."
—Anthony for a moment wanted fiercely to paint her, to her down now, as she was, as, as with each relentless second she could never be again.
The characters are not likeable at all. Perhaps in
some, very few moments, they are relatable. But never likeable. They are awful people who wallow in self-pity and you know from the very beginning that they cannot change and will not change even if it destroys them. But this doesn't subtract from the book. For me at least, the intrigue came from wanting to find out all the ways they could doom themselves. You don't even really feel sorry for them when they are down on their luck, but you're sucked into their lives nonetheless. Like watching a car crash in slow motion.
That being said, I was quite endeared to the dynamic between some different characters, particularly the foursome friend group between Anthony/Gloria/Maury/Dick. They all have such vivid and distinct personalities and I love them all in a twisted way. Though ironically Anthony the protagonist was the one I found to be... not least interesting, but least unique? I suppose? Any way, they worked well in the way that I didn't really
care in a sympathetic way about their suffering, but I still enjoyed seeing them interact.
Now, the story itself, which I suppose is in a way joined as one with 'the characters'. This is a very character-driven book, it is a detail of their lives after all, almost to a detriment. It's effective and pretty simple when you look at the big picture: this couple has an addiction to hedonism and self-destruction that makes them as beautiful as they are damned. (Say that again?) It is rather fun to watch the way they descend into poverty and hopelessness. And I love how it ends with them winning, except it isn't really a victory because they don't deserve it and the cycle will just repeat again, the money will run out. Nothing changes. Nothing ever happens. That's the tragedy.
"Dot," he whispered uncomfortably, "you'll forget. Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know—because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, Dot. And when I got it it turned to dust in my hands. ...
I've often thought that if I hadn't got what I wanted things might have been different with me. I might have found something in my mind and enjoyed putting it in circulation. I might have been content with the work of it, and had some sweet vanity out of the success. I suppose that at one time I could have had anything I wanted, within reason, but that was the only thing I ever wanted with any fervor. God! And that taught me you can't have anything, you can't have anything at all. Because desire just cheats you. It's like a sunbeam skipping here and there about a room. It stops and gilds some inconsequential object, and we poor fools try to grasp it—but when we do the sunbeam moves on to something else, and you've got the inconsequential part, but the glitter that made you want it is gone—"
There are dislikes I have with this novel. For one, it feels very monotonous in its storytelling. I wish there were more clear-cut plot beats; as it is it just feels like one big drone of event after event going on and on and on. Almost like a list, or a formal Wikipedia description of their lives. It's just a little bit poorly structured. I'm not describing this well but that's one thing that bothered me, even if the deeply interesting story and characters and amazing prose made up for it. The other thing that I hated was of course the racism. Like I said, this is a common part of classics, but it really is so bad here. I could barely stand to read about any mention of a character of color because even if they were unimportant they would be subject to some horrendous stereotype or portrayal. Puke.
But that aside, I loved the rest of this novel, and as a whole. As I said on Storygraph: it's not as tightly written or as thematically compelling as The Great Gatsby, but it's impressive in its own right. The prose makes it a joy to read, it's especially brilliant if you love main characters who are utter assholes but are deeply human nonetheless (not comically evil), and a great window into the society of the Jazz Age.
Honestly, I'm having a lot of trouble rating this... even though there are so many little flaws and gripes I had, I feel like I had such a lovely time reading it. I'll go with 8/10.
... I can almost look down the tracks and see you going but without you, dearest, dearest, I can't see or hear or feel or think. Being apart—whatever has happened or will happen to us—is like begging for mercy from a storm, Anthony; it's like growing old. I want to kiss you so—in the back of your neck where your old black hair starts. Because I love you and whatever we do or say to each other, or have done, or have said, you've got to feel how much I do, how inanimate I am when you're gone. I can't even hate the damnable presence of people, those people in the station who haven't any right to live—I can't resent them even though they're dirtying up our world, because I'm engrossed in wanting you so.
If you hated me, if you were covered with sores like a leper, if you ran away with another woman or starved me or beat me—how absurd this sounds—
I'd still want you, I'd still love you. I KNOW, my darling.
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autumninpluto
