From Ulysses to The Great Gatsby

A number of years ago–never mind how many exactly–I was walking home from school when suddenly the idyllic autumn afternoon was disrupted by a strong, hindering wind. For several seconds, it felt as though a large, invisible hand was pushing me backwards. By leaning forward and squinting my watery eyes, I managed to take several strained steps forward before the wind died down. For the few moments it took my body to adjust to the sudden lack of resistance, I felt weightless and fleet of foot. Though still walking, I felt as if I were sprinting home.

That same feeling returned to me as I transitioned from Ulysses to The Great Gatsby. For six nights I had been bogged down by James Joyce’s allusions and chaotic stream of consciousness narrative. By the time I finished the novel, I was exhausted. I felt as though as I had executed the mental equivalent of walking a mile through knee-deep muck. As I began reading Gatsby, however, I felt like an Olympic sprinter. My steps were quick and light as I burned through half the novel in one sitting.

That is not to say that Gatsby is inferior to Ulysses. Both are carefully crafted masterpieces. Both works encompass and embody their respective countries. Both Joyce and Fitzgerald were masters of fiction and to this day remain influential authors. Where the two authors (and their novels) seem to part company, however, may be seen in the means by which they chose to tell their respective tales. Joyce’s account of a day in the life of Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom is a dense and indulgent exploration of the boundaries of English prose. Gatsby, on the other hand, is sparse and assuming, but by no means insubstantial.

Unlike Ulysses, I have read The Great Gatsby before–once in high school and twice now for pleasure. In some ways, the novel was new to me this time around. For example, the character of Jay Gatsby is younger than I remembered. I had previously envisioned him as a silver-haired, distinguished gentlemen in the twilight of his life. In actuality, the character is thirty-something but possesses the air of a much older man.

Needless to say, I was quite relieved to proceed to The Great Gatsby. Having been thoroughly challenged by Ulysses, I was in desperate need of a more enjoyable reading experience. Something that would rejuvenate my spirit and kick-start my enthusiasm. However, as I breezed through Gatsby, I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. Should I even be reading a novel this accessible, a novel this enjoyable? Am I failing to find the deeper meaning of Fitzgerald’s words? Should I somehow be further challenging myself as reader? However, as I read on, I realized it is perfectly acceptable to just sit back and admire the craftsmanship of a master storyteller. Besides, compared to Ulysses, the rest of the books on my list are all “quick reads.”