6 Reader‑response criticism

it, Gatsby “survives sound and whole in character, uncorrupted by the corrup‑ tion which surrounded him” (105).2 For these critics, the protagonist’s innocence serves to indict further the society that destroys him. This critical focus, however, overlooks a more central tension in the novel than that between Gatsby and the world in which he lives. For we cannot ignore the obvious textual evidence, even if we want to contrast Gatsby with the soci‑ ety he inhabits, that he shares at least some of its corruption: for example, he was Wolfsheim’s protégé and has made his fortune by selling bootlegged liquor and fake bonds.3 It seems to me that the text’s central tension is, instead, that between the world of corrupt, vulgar materialism portrayed in the novel and the lyric imagery—the wistful beauty and emotional force of which make it the most memorable and revealing dimension of the novel—so frequently used to describe that world. This tension structures the narrative regardless of how we measure the relative innocence or corruption of any particular character, and it is resolved by a theme of universal human significance that transcends the historical period in which the novel is set: the theme that unfulfilled longing is part of the human condition, common to all and inescapable. As we’ll see, the imagery of unfulfilled longing is used to describe characters and settings regard‑ less of the wealth or poverty, refinement or vulgarity, corruption or innocence they represent. In addition, the imagery of unfulfilled longing is often linked with nature imagery, which suggests that unfulfilled longing is as inevitable as, for example, the change of the seasons. Finally, the imagery of unfulfilled long‑ ing often has a static, timeless quality in the novel, which underscores both its universality and its inevitability: unfulfilled longing has always been and will always be a part of the human condition. Let’s begin by examining how the imagery of unfulfilled longing weaves a com‑ mon thread through characters who represent very different elements of society. To accomplish this task, we’ll analyze Fitzgerald’s lyric imagery in terms of the three ways in which it informs characterization in the novel: (1) as nostalgia for a lost past; (2) as dreams of future fulfillment; and (3) as vague, undefined long‑ ing that has no specific goal. We see the imagery of longing for a lost past in the idyllic description of Daisy and Jordan’s “beautiful white . . . girlhood” (24; ch. 1) in Louisville, where Jordan “first learned to walk upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings” (55; ch. 3). This is a romantic past where, Jordan recalls, she walked on “soft ground” in her “new plaid skirt . . . that blew a little in the wind” and where Daisy dressed in white and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night. “Anyways for an hour!” (; ch. )

This is a world of virginal romance: “clean, crisp mornings,” “soft ground,” new skirts, white dresses, white roadsters, ringing telephones, and handsome young officers. Even the dust on the ground has a magical glow: “a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust” (158; ch. 8, my italics). Similarly, Nick’s description of the Midwest of his youth is filled with nostalgic images of an idyllic past. Remembering his Christmas train rides back home from boarding school and college, he says, When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it . . . unutterably aware of our identity with this country. . . . That’s my middle-west . . . the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. (1; ch. ) Like the “clean, crisp mornings,” “soft ground,” and “shining dust” of Daisy and Jordan’s girlhood, the nature imagery in this passage evokes a fresh, clean, vir‑ ginal past, untouched by the corrupt world. Phrases such as “the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle” and “a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air” evoke open spaces—clean, white, and shining—that invigorate not just the body but the spirit as well. “[T]he real snow” refers, of course, to the enormous quantity of clean, white snow that falls in Wisconsin and lasts all winter, as contrasted with the sooty snow that becomes slush under the wheels of New York City traffic. But the phrase “real snow” also suggests that life in the Midwest of Nick’s youth was more real, more genuine, than the artificial atmosphere he associates with his adult life. This idea is underscored by the homey images of street lamps, sleigh bells, holly wreaths, and lighted windows, whose festive, inviting quality evoke the security and stability of a happy childhood. In The Great Gatsby, even brief images of longing for the past carry emotional force. For example, the image of the young Gatsby revisiting Louisville after Daisy’s departure, “stretch[ing] out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him” (160; ch. 8), and of Tom Buchanan, “drift[ing] on forever seeking a little wist‑ fully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game” (10; ch. l), are haunting and painful because they bespeak an emptiness that can never be filled. Like the imagery used to describe the youth of Daisy, Jordan, and Nick, these images of Gatsby and Tom evoke a world that is forever lost because it is forever past. We can never be young again, and the world of the past, as Gatsby finally learns, inevitably changes with time.

Perhaps the most powerfully nostalgic images of an idyllic past forever vanished are those that close the novel. As Nick sits on the beach the evening before his return to Wisconsin, he muses on the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. (1; ch. ) In this passage, Nick’s nostalgic longing is universalized in global historical pro‑ portions: all of our individual longing for the dreams of lost youth and lost love— which, just like America, “flowered once,” “fresh” and “green,” while we “held [our] breath”—is absorbed in and expressed by a longing for the “enchanted . . . wonder” of a pristine American continent forever gone. And the repetition of words associated with this loss—“once,” “vanished,” “once,” “last,” “transitory,” and “for the last time in history ”—underscore its utter, heartbreaking finality. The imagery of unfulfilled longing also weaves a common thread through char‑ acterization in the form of dreams of future fulfillment. Early in the novel, for example, Nick dreams about his successful future in the bond business, embod‑ ied in the books he bought on banking and investments, the description of which is immediately preceded by, and wedded to, nature imagery: And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees . . . I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. (; ch. 1) The language used to describe the books—“new,” “promising to unfold,” and “shining”—links Nick’s longing for success with the longing for new life awak‑ ened in the spring by the “sunshine,” “great bursts of leaves,” and “breath‑giving air.” Furthermore, the inclusion of financier J. P. Morgan’s name with the names of mythical figures Midas and Maecenas imbues the passage with an ambience of myth, of fantasy, reinforcing the idea that Nick’s success is not guaranteed but dreamed of, longed for with a visionary hopefulness that merges with, and is as natural as, the aching beauty of spring.

Though certainly developed on a less grand scale, the imagery of unfulfilled long‑ ing nevertheless ties the depictions of Myrtle and George Wilson to those of the other characters who dream of future fulfillment. As Nick and Gatsby head to New York City for their lunch appointment, they drive through the “valley of ashes”: We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. (; ch. ) We are prepared for our glimpse of the “valley of ashes” by the two neighbor‑ hoods—neither of them wealthy residential areas—that precede it. The first contains wharves; the second is a slum. Yet in both we see images of unfulfilled longing. In Port Roosevelt we see “red‑belted ocean‑going ships,” which evoke the possibility of future adventure, enjoyment, profit, or at least change. In the slum we see “undeserted saloons of the faded gilt nineteen‑hundreds,” which evoke past glamour and excitement. Then we see Myrtle Wilson, whose posture at this moment, “straining at the garage pump,” embodies longing for future ful‑ fillment, presumably in the form of marriage to Tom Buchanan, who will rescue her from the “valley of ashes” and deliver her into a world of, from her perspec‑ tive, paradisal happiness. That she is “panting with vitality” underscores her connection with life, with springtime, with nature, in direct opposition to the “desolate area of land” (27; ch. 2) in which she lives, where people and objects alike appear “ash‑grey” in the “powdery air” (27; ch. 2). Although George Wilson is one of those “ash‑grey” people, who “mingl[es] . . . with the cement color” (30; ch. 2) of his garage, even he is energized by longing for future fulfillment: when he sees Tom and Nick pull into his garage, “a damp gleam of hope spr[ings] into his light blue eyes” (29; ch. 2). This is the only time a lively verb is used to describe George, and it’s the only time that color, or at least a healthy color, is associated with him. Notably, it’s the color the novel frequently associates with Gatsby’s hopefulness: the mansion he bought in order to be near Daisy has “blue gardens” (43; ch. 3) and a “blue lawn” (189; ch. 9); his trees have “blue leaves” (159; ch. 8); and when he and Daisy reunite, “a damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek” (90; ch. 5). In addi‑ tion, the “damp gleam of hope” in George’s eyes resonates with the “wet light” with which the moon “soaked” young Gatsby’s “tangled clothes upon the floor” (105; ch. 6, my italics) as he dreamed of the future in his bed at night. Of course, the imagery of unfulfilled longing finds some of its most poetic expression when it evokes Gatsby’s dreams of the future. For example, the young protagonist, in love with Daisy Fay and longing to possess her, is fascinated by everything about her, including the house in which she and her family live.