The
1920s were a great cesspool of too much; too much liqueur, too much
glitter, too much boundary pushing. It was the wild burst of laughter
after the war that had no discernible source and trailed awkwardly off
into the silent depression of the 30s. Though certainly it was the start
of a culture unique unto itself; never seen before or since. The birth
of Jazz mixed with the cheap thrill of defying prohibition. Rebellious
women stood on top of the world, rightly drunk on the new and untested
power of the vote, while the quickly out shouted voices of the previous
generation bemoaned shrinking hemlines and the prostitute’s beauty of
the new makeup craze.
Thus
was born the Flapper: the Jazz baby, the modern woman. She was the
iconic symbol of the 20s. She wore her hair short and her hemline
shorter. She danced the Charleston and smoked in public, and according
to Fitzgerald, she's “kissed a dozen men” and will “kiss a dozen more.”
And why not? Despite the laws, booze was easy and friends could be found
and discarded by the handful. The Great War of the last decade was
over, and a collective sigh of relief was felt. Why not live a little?
Why not let loose and have a party of it? Popular poet of the time, Edna
St. Vincent Millay, describes the feeling rather accurately;
“My candle burns at both ends.
It will not last the night.
But Ah! my friends! And Oh! my foes!
It gives a lovely light!"
The
above quote is especially attention catching especially because it
captures what textbooks assure is the spirit of the twenties, when
everyone was celebrating having lived through the catastrophe of WWI.
Another, nearly identical quote is the more recent verse by Big Kenny
and John Rich:
"They burned the candle at both ends as they danced into the flames;
Making love and making plans, driving mother Mary insane."
This
feeling can infect a man, occasionally. It is evident that the metaphor
of 'burning the candle at both ends' of your life is a particularly
accurate description of the twenty's. The 'lovely light' can be
addicting. It's hot and wild and every bittersweet moment of life is in
sharp, hazy focus that intoxicates the senses. And if a person in this
state ever stops to try and reach a plane of existence the rest of the
world inhabits, the siren call of it will always be there in the back of
their mind, like a whisper or a prayer to come 'dance into the flames'.
Its glorious and the most life ever gotten out of existence, and
sometimes it is an outright obsession. Such was the sentiment of the
times, and of Gatsby.
There were many such sentiments of that time; values that
bordered on the unbearably selfish. Live a little. The anti-European,
"Tribal Twenties": leave them to their own affairs. Business! Business,
especially. President Coolidge was heard to have said “the business of
America is business!” And no other business brought in cash quite like
bootlegging; and what a legend was born from that! The bootlegger was
the rascally, daredeviling Robin Hood that brought booze to the people
when the people wanted booze. Moonshine and speakeasies and back alleys
and ever the tingling thrill of almost-caught. Bootleggers were the
funny little rule benders that hid their sinful wares behind concealed
doors and under floorboards. Once, memorably, an establishment was
hidden inside a false telephone booth. The other side of the coin, of
course, was racketeering, which is often mistakenly thought of as
something separate and distinct from bootlegging, but was in all
actuality born from it. Al Capone, (and in fiction, Wolfsheim) were just
a very few of hundreds of thugs that came to power through money made
from bootlegging whiskey, and what might have been remembered as an
otherwise exciting (if risky) game of keep-away from the law became
threats and government scandals and shootouts in populated
neighborhoods. This was stuff gang wars were made of, the birth of
organized crime as we know it. This is the world into which Fitzgerald's
legacy was born.
The man simultaneously soared above expectations and was
buried under life. The drinking and the madness. The fame and the
fortune. Hypocritical. Desperate. Indulgent. His works scoffed at the
pathetic generation of the 20s and the hazy cloud the elite retreated
behind to lick the paper cuts life gave them, well at the same time he
obsessed in the pursuit of such a life. The famous words, “rich girls
don’t marry poor boys” spun a mantra that led to a pit of self-loathing
and a bright eyed, greedy desire to own. Fitzgerald, the wife he barely
managed to buy, and the self-described “Lost Generation” aloofed
themselves to Paris, where they mourned the death of writers everywhere,
and then turned around and began shelling out best sellers while they
sipped champagne. The “Lost Generation” considered themselves to be
artists of a time the twenties forgot; and infact, Fitzgerald was
actually considered a chronicler of the 20s at the time of his
publications instead of the clever satirist he fancied himself to be,
pointing out society’s flaws and inspiring them to mend themselves. He
actually is still considered a chronicler; an entertaining historian who
teaches young high school students everywhere about the trials and
tribulations of the 20s.
Into this man’s life enters Gatsby: the man with a plan. At
first presented as the clever creature who could navigate the dark
pitfalls Fitzgerald had fallen into, his dazzling facade quickly loses
credibility when tested. His house is bought with dirty money. His
friends are criminals and dancing marionettes with painted faces. His
long lost love, Daisy, didn’t wait for him and loves him only
superficially, as a child might; whose voice enchants like money.
Gatsby’s love for her is as distant and all consuming and fragile as a
dream, as untouchable as a blinking fairy light across the bay. Years
after their time, writer Bukowski will put to paper the words, "Find
what you love and let it kill you." Gatsby lived, (and of course), died
by this rule. Find your love. Perfect it. Worship it. Indulge it.
It is the sweetest death Fitzgerald could have imagined.
Tom
Buchanan is he of the old money and illicit mistress, who sits with
Daisy upon a sheltered throne of money and self delusion, built on the
backs of toys they’d broken and tossed away. They are the ideal, the
dream that Gatsby pursuits. He wants nothing less than for Daisy to
denounce her marriage to Tom, send him reeling off his throne with a
flick of her finger and replace him with Gatsby. He’s built an idol of
her that the actuality couldn’t possibly live up to, an idol that
shatters upon realities intrusion. Gatsby, trapped in a fairytale of his
own making, and the Buchanans, caught in the bored haze easy money
affords them, are rudely awakened by events leading up to Tom’s
realization that his wife is having an affair with Gatsby. Knocked off
his high horse, Tom is nevertheless determined to take Gatsby and Daisy
down with him, peeling back suave layers of gilded gold to the ordinary
man, bootlegger, and criminal underneath Gatsby’s facade, revealing him
as he is to a horrified and bewildered Daisy. Awkwardly, “Old Sport”
Nick and “Careless” Jordan look on as embarrassed spectators to the
entire thing; embarrassed for Gatsby, for Tom, for Daisy, for
themselves. Roped along and forced to witness as the *cough cough* car
wreck of a disaster unfolds before them. Of course, we all know how that
ended.
Fitzgerald didn’t quite go out in the blaze of glory he
afforded Gatsby, but he had his time in the twenties spotlight, and
along with his work is still considered an intrinsic thread woven into
the tapestry of the 20s. The Great Gatsby was a work immortalized
throughout the ages by it’s soul wrenching plot and starkly frenzied
characters. May it ever live on in the hearts of bored school children
everywhere.
