Learning from Jay Gatsby

It can be said that I was particularly clueless about the plot of F. Scott Fitzgerald's “The Great Gatsby” when I first started reading it a couple of months back. All I ever knew was that this novel always made it to the shortlist of “great American novels of the 20th century”, or "100 best novels of all time”. I also heard from someone or read from somewhere that this novel had perfectly portrayed the lifestyle of the wealthy and famous, the socialites and crème de la crème which formed New York’s upper class in the 1920s. Those two reasons alone were the main reason that aroused my curiosity to this novel.

Little that I knew that its story would end in such a very dramatic way. That was why I felt some kind of sad, awe and shocked by its very tragic ending.

It also made me ask myself for a thousandth time the ever so old yet still mind-bugging question, “If you really love someone so deep, how long will you wait for her (or him) to love you back with the same intensity?”

Jay Gatsby waited persistently for nearly five years to be able to meet his one true love, Daisy Buchanan, once again.

How long will I patiently wait to be able to meet the love of my life, for the very first time?

The Strangest Christmas Present Ever

“Have you read that book I gave you as Christmas present?”

He suddenly popped up in a Messenger window that afternoon and asked me that question.

Having procrastinating since that morning, I very much welcomed this chance to busy myself.
My hands hurriedly typed answer:
“Nope. Haven’t even started yet. Am quite busy these days.” An easy automatic lie.
“Besides, I’m still on the first chapters of Midnight Children. Which I think is far more interesting.”
I knew exactly this excuse would hurt his feeling a bit, knowing how sensitive he is.

“Oh, okay.”
“But, tell me, why? Don’t you like that book?”
It was so him. Stubborn and tends to keep on insisting others to do things like the way he told them to do. Probably because of his upbringing as the last kid in his family.

“It’s not like that. It’s just that I already started reading Midnight Children before you gave me that Persian novel.”
My fingers just couldn’t stop typing letters. “Oh and furthermore ...” Then I stopped.

I was curious.
What if I told him that I found it very silly to give someone a novel – written by some author who was hardly familiar in literary world – which story was set in the earliest stage of Iran’s Islamic revolution, as a CHRISTMAS present?
Would he be mad at me?

Hmm, I didn’t think so.

“Yes? What’re you’re trying to say?”

Oh, be careful in responding this tricky situation, my mind warned me. Otherwise, he’d keep on asking you whether you already read that novel or not for these coming months. Each and everytime he sees you online in Messenger.

“Furthermore, I have these books which I already bought years before and until today still sit in my bookshelf, in their original wrapping.”
“I think it’s fair enough if I finished them all first, and then read yours.” Another lie.

I don’t know whether these books have feelings and care which one amongst them would get the chance to be read first. I just hoped he’d buy this rationale.

“Oh, ok. I see.”
“Just let me know when you finally read it, and whether you like it or not. Will you?”

Hah?! I couldn’t believe it! He trusted that answer. Thankfully, so I could stop lying to him, at least for that moment.

“Of course. I will.” This was, of course, not a lie.

* * *

What you’ve just read was a reenactment of a chat that happened one afternoon, almost three years ago.

And from that said afternoon until this very moment, I bought dozens other titles. Most of them are, obviously, fictions, and was written by European or American author. I did make some exceptions, though.
They are Marjane Satrapi’s “Persepolis” and “Embroideries”, some kind of semi-autobiographies that dealt mostly with women’s rights, (Western/liberal) democracy vs. sharia/Islamic rules, and Iran vs. the rest of the world; Arundhati Roy’s first and only novel, “The Gods of Small Things” that shocked me with it’s brutal honesty; also Khaled Hosseini’s “The Kite Runner” which touched my soft spots.

Because honestly, before these, I never really had the slightest interest in reading stories about Persian and Arab countries. They’re just not written for me. (Note: Roy, as I believe you all know, is an Indian author).

As for now, if you’re still curious what I have done to that strangest Christmas present ever, well, it is now buried deep behind other thick novels in my bookshelves, its pages became yellowish and dusty. Perhaps I should just pass it on to others years ago, as a gift. Don’t you think?

Please, Sir, I Don't Understand Your English

what have I done to have been given children like these Benjamin was punishment enough and now for her to have no more regard for me her own mother I’ve suffered for her dreamed and planned and sacrificed I went down into the valley yet never since she opened her eyes has she given me one unselfish thought at times I look at her I wonder if she can be my child except Jason he has never given me one moment’s sorrow since I first held him in my arms I knew then that he was to be my joy and my salvation I thought that Benjamin was punishment enough for any sins I have committed I thought he was my punishment for putting aside my pride and marrying a man who held himself above me I don’t complain I loved him above all of them because of it because my duty though Jason pulling at my heart all the while but I see now that I have not suffered enough I see now that I must pay for your sins as well as mine what have you done what sins have your high and mighty people visited upon me but you’ll take up for them you always have found excuses for your own blood only Jason can do wrong because he is more Bascomb than Compson while your own daughter my little daughter my baby girl she is she is no better than that when I was a girl I was unfortunate I was only a Bascomb I was taught that there is no half-way ground that a woman is either a lady or not but I never dreamed when I held her in my arms that any daughter of mine could let herself don’t you know I can look at her eyes and tell you may think she’d tell you but she doesn’t tell things she is secretive you don’t know her I know things she’s done that I’d die before I’d have you know that’s it go on criticize Jason accuse me of setting him to watch her as if it were a crime while your own daughter can I know you don’t love him that you wish to believe faults against him you never have yes ridicule him as you always have Maury you cannot hurt me any more than your children already have and then I’ll be gone and Jason with no one to love him shield him from this I look at him every day dreading to see this Compson blood beginning to show in him at last with his sister slipping out to see what do you call it then have you ever laid eyes on him will you even let me try to find out who he is it’s not for myself I couldn’t bear to see him it’s for your sake to protect you but who can fight against bad blood you won’t let me try we are to sit back with our hands folded while she not only drags your name in the dirt but corrupts the very air your children breathe Jason you must let me go away I cannot stand it let me have Jason and you keep the others they’re not my flesh and blood like he is strangers nothing of mine and I am afraid of them I can take Jason and go where we are not known I’ll go down on my knees and pray for the absolution of my sins that he may escape this curse try to forget that the others ever were

No, I was not mumbling up there.

And for your information, it was not actually mine either.
The so-called mumbling above originally comes from William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury.
And yes, that passage above was coming from inside the mind of a particular character, of whom I can barely recall now.

All I wanted to convey is that if you have trouble in understanding the above passage and subsequently failed to finish reading it, so did I.
And it turned out, so did with many others, which are actually Mr. Faulkner’s fellow American writers.

And they said once that Ulysses written by James Joyce was one of the toughest read in the history of modern English literature. D’oh!