My first copy of The Great Gatsby cost me $2. It was the year 1953, the cover was dark blue with city lights in the background, and a pair of mournful green eyes looking at nothing in particular. I had just finished Tender Is the Night, so I took Gatsby home in exhilaration, not unlike going home with the girl of your dreams — well, almost. I was not to be disappointed. Although I never related to Gatsby the way I did to Dick Diver — Jay reminded me of a couple of men I had met in my 15 years of life, whereas Dick was someone tragic whom I aspired to — it was the most glamorous of novels. It was lyrical as well as brutal, and like all Scott’s novels magical, mystical and full of romance. Here’s the narrator Nick Carraway: ‘There was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life…It was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and it is not likely I shall ever find again.’
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