The End of Trimalchio and Run Between the Raindrops

The end of "Trimalchio," just like "Gatsby's," is one of the most memorable in the history of the literature of the 20th Century. It is that passage that has--for better or worse--jaded teachers to instruct the novel centered around the value of "the green light" at the end of Daisy's dock. The novel really is much more than the green light. The light transformed into Gatsby's dream becomes then a metaphor for reckless ambition and deceit, much more in tune with the main theme of the novel. It is difficult to pick a character to directly associate with; to allow ourselves to be led unquestioningly by Nick Carraway is readers' suicide. Is there a sympathetic character in this novel? If not, why is it the classic American novelistic achievement it is? Tom and Daisy are scratched off from the beginning of the novel. Nick is too much into himself for the reader to give in peacefully into his epiphanies and meanderings. Gatsby earns some pity from the reader, but pity doesn't cut it, really. Jordan Baker is, despite her vampirism, the only openly dishonest person in the book. She accepts her condition because she always gets her way. The Wilson's are not minor characters, as some major literary criticism would have them be, but their effort is a little too late in the book for redemption. So where does that leave the reader? It is only Fitzgerald's technique and artistry that keeps the reader begging for more, even at the end when the catastrophic events bring the novel to a resolution. I always teach this from the stand point of reader's enjoyment rather than to make a political, gender or literary criticism statement. At any rate, reading "Trimalchio" was more than satisfactory. It was like having a conversation about Gatsby with the master himself.

I am re-reading two novels I read when I was in high school. The first one was the first book I read this year, "War Year," by John Haldeman and the second one which I am reading right now is "Run Between the Raindrops" by Dale A. Dye. These are two novels about the Vietnam war. They are written brutally honest, and carry with them all the pain and horror of that conflict. The language is "dirty" language. That is not to say that the language is sexual or deviant in content, but rather that it is written in a vernacular that is so steeped with the language of the infantry man so as to have the effect of ripping to shreds all the stylistic rules of standard novelistic language. The action centers around the Battle of Hue City in 1968. It follows a group of United States Marines in their almost hopeless charge against the walls of the citadel. Why am I reading this book? I have been thinking lately about my own war experience (first Iraqi war) and how memories fade and affect me when I see what's going on in Iraq today. I miss the grunts, that's all.

I am actually going to write a bit more this coming week about the creative process. I am really trying to make an effort to finish some projects I started last year. We'll see where it all ends up.

Trimalchio and other books

The main differences between "Trimalchio" and "Gatsby" are now in the open. Daisy has a conversation with Nick about leaving Tom, her husband, for Gatsby. That never happened in the final edition of the book. The long narrative describing Gatsby's past is also absent until much later in the book.

The book is still beautifully rendered. I've already written about Fitzgerald as a master of lyricism, but he also had a wonderful ear for dialogue. Here's an example: "'One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil. Reach me a rose, honey, and pour me a last drop on that there crystal glass.'" I know I am going to sound a bit ridiculous by just picking out a word, but in this passage it is "that there" part that makes it so believable. People used to talk back then and to have included that very specific detail without overdoing it is magnificent. Another passage of marvelously (almost miraculous) prose is this: "They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which come at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out in the darkness and there was a sort of stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place about the trees--he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder." What follows is even more beautiful, "So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete." The sheer magnifience of this passage is enough to convince the most incredulous person that Fitzgerald was, without a doubt, a genius. I already confessed that I am a fan of Fitzgerald. Once I even took my students to his grave: here, here and here. I only have about 40 more pages to go and hope to finish today and start my next selection.

I got a copy of "The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays" by Albert Camus, and another book on the writing life. I really have to start writing and working again creatively. I won't have much time over the weekend but I will try next week.

Trimalchio

A friend of mine pointed out the fact that "books do not come equipped with a quota" of pages to read a day. I needed to hear that statement. After finishing "The Good Soldier" yesterday, I started to think that perhaps for the first time in my life I am becoming a fast reader; I am, for the most part, a very slow reader, consuming word by word, enjoying each of them as if they were a drop of honey. Instead of putting restrictions and limits on myself I am just going to read, come what may. I don't want to defeat the whole purpose the "freedom of reading."

I started "Trimalchio" last night right before dinner. The book is billed as "An Early Version of 'The Great Gatsby,'" yet James West writes in the introduction that despite the fact that the book is an early edition of a great book, it should be read as a completely different book. I agree. You see, I have a long history with "Gatsby." I never read it in high school (it wasn't even offered), and I didn't come into contact with the book until 1995. The first mention of it I believe was in college. One of my undergrad professors gave me a copy but I never picked it up to read it until the summer of 1996. I read it that summer before entering graduate school at Georgetown University because it was on the reading list of one of the course I was going to take. I enjoyed my first reading of "The Great Gatsby." Now, after reading it over 20 times and teaching it for the last six, I enjoy it more and more. There's something miraculous about a book with such an intense plot, such lyricism of language done in 50,000 words. It is the economy of language that makes Fitzgerald's masterpiece a great book.

There are many differences between "Trimalchio" and "Gatsby." The first two or three chapters are identical. The differences begin in the chapter where Nick Carraway, the narrator, goes to Gatsby's party for the first time. There he meets Jordan Baker again (she will become his love interest later in the book). A major difference occurs in some passages that were eventually cut from the final version of the book, so reading those passages feels like reading a secret treasure of words that was kept inside a closet for a long time.

About Fitzgerald's lyrical style. Simply put, he was a god of lyricism. Here's an example:
"He smiled understandingly--much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey."

I will confess that I consider this book one of the greatest (if not the greatest) masterpiece of the 20th Century literary canon. While I may be prejudiced for it, I am also aware of its little discrepancies. I will keep these in mind as I write.