Published by Scribner on 1925
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My dearest Gatsby,
I just can’t get enough of you. We’ve had four exquisite trysts, each one better than the last. We first met when I was a pretentious college sophomore who thought reading the modern classics would make me ‘interesting’ and an ‘intellectual.’ I wasn’t quite ready for a relationship with you, though, and I returned you to the library without a backward glance. Two years later I came crawling back after a lit. class renewed my interest — and we really hit it off! I underlined lines about green lights and voices full of money like it was my job. Then we lost touch for two more years, until your over-the-top movie adaptation sparked a rage for all things Jazz Age. And now, one year later, I came back to you once more. And how good you were to me!
My love for you grows with every immersion between your pages. I love your poetic language; your hopeful hero’s desperate attempt to capture the past; and your themes of reinvention and striving. (I could do without the casual racism, though.)
I know many people see you as a sad love story or a hard-boiled crime novel, but I like to think I can see the real you: your disillusionment with excess and the careless people who crave it, as well as your commentary on America’s simultaneous yearning for the good old days and eagerness for progress, for more.
I love that every time I read you, I see a little bit more. I understand a little better. And I love knowing that as the years pass, I can return to you like an old friend, peel back the covers a bit further, and understand the things that only life experience can teach.
Until we meet again,