Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Chilling, as he was, in his Farrow & Ball whites

our idler thought of Venice, 
as he contemplated dressing.

            Then it was all true. I saw the skins 
            of tigers flaming in his palace on the 
            Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest 
            of rubies to ease, with their crimson-
            lighted depths, the gnawings of his 
            broken heart.

I've been reading (haven't we all been reading), and with acute in-terest, the happy volunteerings of many voices, on what they think The Great Gatsby is, and what it would be like to make it relevant. New York donated space to a lady who used it to denounce Fitzgerald's morals; The New Republic opened up for one who sees it as our Moby Dick of class consciousness; then, naturally, there are spirited findings on the latest movie, The New York Times taking care to insist, the text is nothing sacred.

Possibly not. You can jockey for position on it, and money; and yet the world will go right on,              getting it.

F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
op. cit.

No comments:

Post a Comment