âThe Great Gatsbyâ is so right, and Leonardo DiCaprio is so wrong
Whatâs to live for? The price of wine continues to skyrocket, and Warren Buffett is now tweeting. Whatâs next for us culturally? Bingo night at the Louvre?
Meanwhile, the criminal justice system insists on hammering on poor Lindsay Lohan. Itâs only a matter of time before her work suffers, and then who takes over as the freckled queen of American cinema? Leonardo DiCaprio? Thatâs the obvious answer. Yes, I have issues with him as Gatsby, but more on that in a moment.
For now, Iâll tell you whatâs to live for. Summer, thatâs what. The steering wheel is already slick with sunscreen, and itâs time to start adding a little extra detergent to the wash, especially if you have active young boys in the house.
By the way, itâs Teacher Appreciation Week at the kidâs school, and my suggestion that we send along little bottles of airline booze seems to have fallen on deaf ears. I ask you, in the last lap of the school year, is there anything a teacher needs more? Skip the flowers, forget the cupcakes. Send martinis, in big crystal vases.
âI donât know who ever told you that you were funny,â my wife says as I suggest this enlightened end-of-the-year teacher gift.
The sad part is I had to discover it for myself. My whole life has been a long journey of self-discovery. A lot of self-everything, in fact, if you really want to know. But you probably donât.
But Iâll tell you, as we head into summer, the perfect teacherâs gift would be this: a basket containing a good wine, maybe a DVD of her favorite movie, some serious sunscreen, and the best summer book of all time, âThe Great Gatsby.â
Whatâs so great about âGatsbyâ? Everything.
âHe knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.â
I reread it almost every June, the way some nerds read âThe Iliadâ in Greek, or other nerds read the scores of Beethoven symphonies.
Thatâs the way I read âGatsby.â In it, I hear the same soothing rhythms of baseball, or the soft poundings of Long Island Sound.
Itâs a slender novel. You could almost memorize it and recite it at dinner parties, where everyone would hate you. But later, on the ride home, you know the other guests would be thinking, âDid he really recite âThe Great Gatsbyâ? All in one breath, no punctuation? Between dinner and dessert? What a tool.â
In the words of Charles Bukowski, the âlibraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleepâ on most of the stuff you shouldâve read in high school and college, or most of the stuff you chatter about at dinner parties.
And then thereâs âGatsby.â
Youâll hear a lot about the movie this weekend, and youâll maybe see it and talk about it, and wonder whatâs the big fuss. Youâll blame DiCaprio, who seems a poor fit as Americaâs ultimate leading man, no matter what he thinks of himself personally.
I canât help but think back to the recent cover story in Esquire, where the writer tried so hard to justify DiCaprio as a major national icon, as a fitting Gatsby, that you could smell the perspiration on the page.
So what you should really do is grab the book. Roughly. By the neck.
As reading nooks go, the Beverly Hills Hotel isnât ideal but itâll do. A nook should be in the corner of a big Victorian in Atlanta, or Grand Rapids, or Seattle. The lighting should be natural, through a pane of hundred-year-old glass, and the lick of a nearby fireplace wonât hurt.
Minus that, the Beverly Hills Hotel has the proper gravitas for Gatsby, a shared sense of greatness, of longevity, of things well made. As adopted mansions go, I like the downtown Biltmore too.
Point is, you can pick your reading spot. A bluff by the beach will do. A corner of your favorite old bookstore (if you can still find an old bookstore). Or a little spot under a major tree.
And settle in with what is really Americaâs greatest romance novel â this ode to summer, this ode to yearning, this ode to eternal love.
Meanwhile, thanks for everything, teach.
Love, Gatsby.
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