Every night, during his extravagant parties in his west egg mansion, you can find him staring at a small green light from across the bay. You can't see his face, but you know that he is revering in something. Something so deep that you can sense the bittersweet hope and motivation riddling throughout his body.
That night I had be given the opportunity to interview such a fine specimen of a man. I had almost found myself lost in his trance; his American spirit so strong it pulled me in.
“Mr. Gatsby?” I said to snap him from his gaze. He jolted and turned around with a cigar in his mouth “Sorry about that Ma'am. Let’s get back to that interview,” he said with a refined cool voice. The smile he gave me was a warm reassurance of humility that still existed in him; that he had not succumbed to the condescending mindset of those who live similar mansions like his own.
That night, I discovered the reason of his humble personality. It was because he was not actually Jay Gatsby, but instead, James Gatz, a poor farmer from North Dakota who was too ambitious for that primitive lifestyle and set off for greater things.
.
It was on his quest for achievement that he had found a meaning to continue forward with his dream. Love. Now Jay Gatsby, a soldier in the army met the girl of his dreams. “That’s what this was all for,” He opened his arms, waving his hand towards his house. “Not for me, but for her,” He quickly looked back at the green light, “ I throw these parties, hoping that one day she’ll hear of them and show up.” I nodded in fascination. I was in awe of the amount of motivation this man had. Never had I met a man so dedicated to wining back the girl of his dreams, but something in his tone gave away that it wasn’t just the girl he was idolized on.
He seemed to be latched on the lifestyle that this mystery girl had introduced to him and now he can’t seem to let either of them go. I couldn’t help but observe this hamartia in him.
Once the interview was over, I offered to get him a drink. He respectfully declined and walked back to stare at the green light across the bay.
That was summer. Now it is winter and The Great Gatsby has been dead for quite some time. He had been murdered. I’ve heard many speculations, like how he was guilty and deserved to die, but from that night, the only thing that I can say he is guilty of is loving. Loving an impossible goal and obsessing over the fantasies that he believed he could relive. It is now that I realize that, that green light wasn’t just a light, but a representation of Gatsby’s hopes and dreams.
The Light Across the Bay
An interview with the Great Gatsby