Revisiting The Great Gatsby

     A little over a year ago I published a post on Fitzgerald's book, The Great Gatsby. This weekend a new film version of the book is coming out to much fanfare and hype. Yes, I plan to see it with some skepticism since I have seen so many wonderful classic books totally demolished by Hollywood. But I will give it a chance. I will even give Leonardo a chance despite my memory of Robert Redford in that title role. In celebration of the new interest in Fitzgerald and Gatsby, I am reprinting the blog I wrote with a few tweaks. Next week I'll post my review of the new film. Warning: if you are one of the few people who didn't read this book--or the Cliffs Notes--in high school, this blog post has spoilers.

March 12, 2012:

... A classic novel with layers of meaning, The Great Gatsby is well worth an adult read because it beautifully describes the human yearning to make dreams come true, often at a terrible price. It also examines the nostalgia for a time remembered and the desire to repeat that long ago memory. And-bonus- it contains only nine compact and enchantingly written chapters.
     In his novel Fitzgerald attempts to answer two questions about the nature of humans: Can you repeat the past? Can you plan and work hard-no matter what means you use-to make your dreams come true?
     The very first time narrator Nick Carroway observes the mysterious Jay Gatsby, he actually sees a shadow, a silhouette of a man, arms stretched out in the darkness toward a green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock.

Beyond that dock live Daisy and her husband, Tom Buchanan, members of the inherited money class, careless people who smash their way through life with total ambivalence toward the feelings of others. Nevertheless, Gatsby remembers Daisy as the golden girl, the love of his life when he first left for WWI. Gatsby believes it is their destiny to be together. Can they repeat the past and make life again contain the innocent love they once had? Can Gatsby climb up those stairs to the world of wealth and privilege to attract Daisy's attention?

Meyer Wolfsheim, Nick Carroway, and Gatsby

      Piece by piece the truth of Gatsby's background comes together in a story woven of fairy dust. He actually came from nothing but had the enormous imagination and determination to remake himself into a glamorous image of weath in order to catch the attention of his former love, Daisy. The story constantly juxtaposes the question of whether, in the corrupt 1920s, a person can actually follow the American Dream of lifting himself up from a poor past to become a success.

Is that dream still possible or has it been defiled by what America has become by the 1920s--a world of gangsters, corrupt politicians, and people of influence with dubious values? Gatsby's will alone pushes him relentlessly on his quest for his lost love. In that plan he surrounds himself with the new rich of the Twenties, scandalous people who had been in prison, bootlegged alcohol, and killed people. But they aid him in his climb to reach the rich, well-guarded plateau that is Daisy's world.
     Can innocence be regained in the morally corrupt world that is America in the Twenties? Can Fitzgerald's rapturous descriptions of perfect love and wonderous dreams live again? 

     In the end, Nick Carroway--the narrator of the story--is left to explain that America was a dream of the old sailors who first discovered her pristine, green, untouched world, and they realized that this New World could become a place of great promise and dreams. By the Twenties, however, reality has changed that dream into a place of moral corruption and hopelessness beneath its Coney Island facade. Gatsby did not realize that sometimes the very best of human yearnings get smashed in the very worst of human nature.
     The Great Gatsby is a literary classic and, as such, causes the reader to consider the nature of his own time. "Classic" means a reader also sees new ideas he didn't discern with the first reading. If you haven't picked up a copy of Fitzgerald's book lately, think about doing so. It's well worth your time.

...and Back Again

"You drive twenty-six hours? Are you crazy?"
     This is the universal reaction of people who hear that I spend the winter in Phoenix, the rest of the year in Illinois, and drive instead of fly. I generally rent furnished houses in Phoenix, and I drive so I can load up my car with my three-month necessities (especially books) and have that car to drive while I'm out there. The bottom line is really this: an unremarkable trip back and forth is important. Rarely has that happened, especially when you can't trust Mother Nature.
     The first year, two friends and I drove through a massive dust storm between Tucson and Phoenix that resulted in a 28-car pileup just ahead of us with multiple injuries and several deaths. The decision to stop for lunch caused us to avoid that horrible accident. Those friends, strangely, have not volunteered to drive with me again. I've also driven in the mountains in sleet storms and across Kansas in wind, rain, hail, and snow (I am trying to avoid Kansas in the future. Sorry, any Kansas residents, including my friends Dave, Sue, and former resident, Ruth.) Usually I drive with a friend or with one of my adult children. Frankly, having a friend to talk with and help drive (or an adult child that you don't get to see very much because he has children responsibilities) is wonderful.

     This year one of my friends--Eileen--agreed to the ultimate sacrifice: she flew into Mesa, got off the plane, into my car, and we left--just two senior citizens with twenty-six hours of road time.
     I used to drive through Flagstaff to get out of Arizona but it's iffy in the spring for snow. I've also driven to Tucson and across Texas because of bad weather to the north. This year the weather was encouraging. That rarely happens.
     Leaving the Mesa Airport, we bypassed Flagstaff and went north through the picturesque towns of Show Low and Snowflake. The mountain roads are twisty and the scenery is gorgeous--sheer cliffs, rivers down below, majestic rock formations, and blue skies. We stopped in Show Low for dinner and got out of the mountains before it became dark. 

Leaving Arizona, we waved at the sign and headed into New Mexico. Now the majesty ends and the winds begin. I have never driven across this state without wind squalls blowing across me or in my wake. Gallup is just across the western border of New Mexico and we stayed there for the night.
     The following day was the killer on time: four-lane clear across New Mexico, the panhandle of Texas, and the western half of Oklahoma. (I am so glad I am not doing this on two-lane route 66.) Not much in the way of towns in those areas except Albuquerque and

Amarillo. Texas is the tumbleweed capitol of the world and we only crossed the panhandle. Believe me, I've driven north and south in Texas and I've seen the western half, which appears to consist of trailer parks, dust, salvaging operations, and, oh yes, high school football fields. My atlas has so many Texas routes marked in various directions that it's a mass of colored marker. Last year, my younger son and I stopped in north Texas because of tornadoes in Oklahoma. But this year all was calm and we pushed on into green, green, Oklahoma, heading for Oklahoma City for the night.

     

We decided to take the route I had taken driving out to Phoenix, an itinerary chosen by my older son, remembering his geometry. Avoiding Kansas, we headed out from Oklahoma City the last day and turned north through Tulsa and into Missouri. That decision might seem strange, but we had good roads driving out to Phoenix.

The interstate took us through Springfield and then we drove north to Lebanon, Missouri, where we abandoned the four-lane and turned onto route 54. That route has lots of passing lanes and it took us through Jefferson City until we picked up route 19 to Hannibal.
     Now we were in territory Eileen knew like the back of her hand: she grew up in Quincy, just a hop, skip, and jump from Mark Twain territory. We were on the home stretch.

     The green grass of the Midwest was a sharp contrast to the dusty desert of Arizona, but it was a green I recognized. And--bonus--it would take a few days for the humidity to catch up with my arthritis. We were back in tiny Monmouth by that evening: two and a half days and 1500+ miles on the road.
     Home.
     (Sigh.)

The Snowbird Life

Now that I'm about to head back to Illinois from Arizona, I should answer the question people ask me most about winter travel: What's it like to live away from home for three months, especially in a desert rather than in the snowy and cold Midwest?

Aerial photo of Phoenix

It may be easier to use some photographs. Years ago when my oldest child moved to Phoenix, I'd fly via Chicago/Denver/Sky Harbor Airport to visit Arizona. It took a whole day and three difference planes. What I remember most from that trip was the first sight of the city at night, a gorgeous panorama that suddenly came into view once we flew over the mountains surrounding the Valley of the Sun. I'm not sure I will ever forget that blazing panorama. 

   The most visible and memorable landmark by day or night was South Mountain because my son and his wife lived near the base of the mountain. They still do today, and on the mountain is a plaque commemorating their daughter, Gwen, who died several years ago. They often climbed the mountain together.

     Renting a house, learning to drive on the freeways, and finding interesting places have occupied many of my thoughts over the past four years when I actually have lived in Phoenix during the winter.

     In those years I've rented three different houses.

The most recent one looks like this and is located in an area of South Phoenix known as Ahwatukee.  It's in a small, gated part of the city near great shopping, restaurants, movie theatres, book stores, and a library. This is what I see (below) when I leave my house in the morning.

Unlike home, I know none of my neighbors, but the whole area is racially diverse and the car license plates come from multiple states as well as Canadian provinces. It feels like a safe area and I don't worry about crime. The neighborhood has its own pool and the landscaping is handled by the homeowner's association.

    The most complicated problem has been learning to drive in a city of a million and a half. Each year I've

driven my own car out and back with a variety of friends and family members. I've become an expert at packing for a three-month visit and filling my car trunk and back seat. I have it down to a science. We've driven through snow storms, sleet, and a huge dust storm that almost did me in. But somehow we have made it through a variety of routes.

     The first two winters in Phoenix I mostly used the surface streets, venturing out on "The Ten" only occasionally. Now, however, I'm quite comfortable using the freeways. The 202 takes me east and west and the 10 or 101 take me north and south. This is the scene (above)as I head toward the 202 from my house. It's only two blocks away. 

   

 At first the overhead ramps and traffic seemed a bit daunting. But now I'm used to driving up and over just about anything. Because Phoenix is a city of freeways, I use four times more gasoline here than I use in my tiny town.            

              

     Some of the places I frequent the most are the

Chandler Mall

grocery store (10 minutes away), the Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale (30 min), and the Chandler Mall (15 min.)
     Phoenix has wonderful restaurants, shopping, and winter weather, and it's hard to leave those joys to go back to the Midwest to a small town. However, despite missing my children and grandchildren in far off Phoenix, I feel that small town is home.

Winter in the Desert

     I loved growing up in the Midwest and raising my children there.

     The winters, however, were another story.
     Extreme cold, broken pipes, ice on sidewalks and roads, snowstorms that kept people stuck inside until someone could plow them out, and power outages were not pleasant. Sometimes they were downright scary. In fact, the weather-related cancellations of events made life uncertain. The worst time I can remember was the weekend of my father's funeral in a February. A huge snow and ice storm blanketed the Midwest, my power went out for three days, and my children and small grandchildren were stuck in airports all over the country trying to get home. After that experience, I vowed that if I could live in a warm place in the winter, I would.

Phoenix has gorgeous sunsets. I'm told it's the dust.

     It helped that all my children eventually ended up in the Phoenix, Arizona area. They remembered those winters too. I knew I raised smart kids.
     Now I sit at my computer in January and I can hear the plop-plop of rain failing outside the window. I don't mind it at all and am struck by the irony of the current weather map where no precipitation is happening anywhere else on the US map. Phoenix, today, is the precipitation capital of the country. Amazing! In all the years I have lived here or visited, I have not seen rain like this. The early traffic report has numerous accidents since Phoenix roads are not made to handle lots of rain and people aren't used to driving in it. We are setting a Phoenix record for rain today.

     Living in Arizona in the winter and having friends back in Illinois is like being in a different universe. Unless I see the snowstorms on television, I'm not aware of what is going on in the middle of the country. The first winter I lived in Phoenix I was in awe of every morning when the sun came streaming in the windows and the skies were always blue. The gray, Illinois skies were a thing of the past. As one of my parents said on a visit one time, "It doesn't seem like a place where people should live. No character-building from rugged winters or wet, soggy springs. Sunshine every day just isn't natural."  Perhaps correct, but I'm getting used to it!

     Driving is interesting in Phoenix. Back in Illinois I can drive across my entire town in about ten minutes. In Phoenix I spend three times the money on gas compared to back home. It is a city of freeways. The first winter I spent in the city, I drove mostly on the surface roads because the freeways were daunting. The second winter I ventured out on the freeways occasionally, but I always felt like I should pray before leaving the entrance ramp with a green light indicating I could go. Now I drive on the freeways most days and it has become quite ordinary. Even rush hour traffic is do-able.
     I have threatened to live with each of my three children one month a winter. I know, however, that this plan would be cruel and unusual punishment for all of us. So I rent a house, and so far I have lived in three different houses out of four winters. That experience is always a challenge, filled with surprises. This year the plumbing under the kitchen sink flooded the floor, the refrigerator had a cracked part that flooded the kitchen floor, the smoke alarms [five of them] signaled a squawking low battery sound [always at night], and no one had changed a dead light bulb in years. I had my work cut out for me. Lately, no strange noises and no floods. Ah, peace and quiet.

     Even more satisfying is meeting former students and friends from back home for lunch. It is amazing how many Illinois people live in Phoenix. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone, anywhere in Phoenix, who has lived here for all of his or her life. They are often from Wisconsin, Minnesota, Illinois, or Nebraska. When I tell them I am from Illinois, they assume I am from Chicago or the suburbs. I guess downstate does not exist in the minds of non-Illinoisans..or, actually, in the minds of Chicago natives.
     The rain is starting to slow down and the gentle patter of it on the window and rocks in the yard is stopping. Another "terrible storm" is over in the Valley of the Sun.

All Characters Are Not Created Equal

       I saw the movie version of "Les Miserables" this week and the order of actors in the credits reminded me of the Shakespearean quote about the world being a stage. Yes, it's true that each player has his time and size of role. But even the most obscure part has its function. (Think of all the bodies at the end of the revolution or on the battlefield of "Lincoln.")
       What functions do authors think about when they create characters in their minds or on their pages?
       Orson Scott Card, who has written multiple books about the writing craft, mentions that characters can be divided into walk-ons and placeholders, minor characters, and major characters. In a movie like "Les Miserables" or a mystery novel, an author has to consider how much time and description to give to each character he creates.

       The walk-ons and placeholders are part of the background of a story. They have their purposes either in large ensemble groups or in small parts. They come in, do their thing, and then leave. In movie credits, such a character might be labeled "second man with gun." In the Sherlock Holmes' stories, the Baker Street Irregulars, a band of street urchins that Holmes relies on for intelligence, is such a group. In "Les Miserables," the priest who gives Jean Valjean the candlesticks or the foreman of the factory who throws Fantine out, help send each character toward his or her destiny. Then the priest and foreman leave the stage/screen, mission accomplished.
       In the mystery I just finished writing, Three May Keep a Secret, the county coroner, Dr. Ron Martinez, identifies a fire victim and then escorts her body to the larger city of Woodbury to keep the chain of evidence intact prior to her autopsy. I describe him only briefly, with a few details to show how tired he is when called out in the middle of the night. I also mention he is actually a pediatrician who doubles as a coroner in the tiny town of Endurance. Multiple titles is a characteristic of small towns.

       The second category, minor characters, helps the plot along and we learn more about them than the walk-ons. They have their purposes too, and without them the story wouldn't work as well or take some of the turns it takes. In "Les Miserables," Samantha Barbs plays Eponine, a tragic character who is in love with Marius, and she has more screen time than the walk-ons, but she is not considered a major character. It is important that we feel her despair when she realizes that Marius is actually in love with Cosette, because then we understand Eponine's motive in hiding Cosette's letter from Marius. Major plot point!
       In Three May Keep a Secret, Grace Kimball has two friends who play supportive roles in her life. One is Deb O'Hara, former junior high school secretary, married with two grown-up daughters, and always ready for a party, especially if it involves margaritas. Deb raises the alarm when Grace goes missing. She is in sharp contrast to Jill Cunningham, another friend who makes infrequent appearances in the book.  She is there when Grace learns of an unexpected death and she always keeps the group in focus. She is an accountant and a no-nonsense kind of disciplined person who jogs two miles every morning. Unknowingly, they put Grace in the path of a killer when they volunteer her for a job. They are necessary to the plot, but not major characters.
       A sub-category of minor characters is those who provide comic relief, especially in such a tragic story as "Les Miserables." Those characters would be Madame Thenardier (Helen Bonham Carter) and her husband played by Sacha Baron Cohen. In Three May Keep a Secret, two characters offer comic relief. A dark mystery needs to give the reader time to catch her breath after something terrible happens. Ronda Burke is such a character. She is pursuing a career as a stand-up comedian and is Grace's former student. She has an enormously ugly dog she has named "Adonis." Grace's sister-in-law, Lettie Kimball, is also a comic relief character. She believes everything she reads in the tabloids, listens to all the gossip around town, and has outrageous opinions. A minor character, she reflects a kind of small town person, but she also keeps her ears open for what is happening. She knows the pulse of the town.
       We get to know the major characters well and want to know their fates. Their lives--and often their points of view--drive the plot. These major characters have both strengths and weaknesses and what we think of each of them determines how we feel about their fates. We must care about them, however, to stay involved in the story.

       "Les Miserables" can only work because every character has his role to play. The same is true in any novel we read. The author determines page time and description length by the function of the character. Next time you read a novel or watch a film, think about the role each character plays, large or small. How would the movie or novel be different if that character, no matter how minor, didn't exist?