Finished
Gatsby this morning and it struck me for the first time (is this my first or
second reread?) about the dreams, what Fitzgerald calls "Winter
Dreams" in the story of that name which is included in my book.
Pages
104/105:
He talked a lot about the past and I gathered that he
wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into
loving Daisy. His life had been confused
and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting
place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what the thing was . . ..
. . . One autumn night, five years before, they had
been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a
place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each
other. Now it was a cool night with that
mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming
out into the darkness and there was a 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
above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he
could suck up the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
Then
to the last page:
Its [Long Island] vanished trees, the trees that had
made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and
greatest of human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held
his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic
contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time
in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world,
I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the
end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long
way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could
hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know
that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond
the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic
future that year by year recedes before us.
It eluded us then, but that's no matter---tomorrow we will run faster,
stretch out our arms farther. . . . And
one fine morning --
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back
ceaselessly into the past.
Then,
from "Winter Dreams" (p. 176, Chapter II):
Now, of course, the quality and the seasonability of
these winter dreams varied, but the stuff of them remained.
Then,
the last few pages:
He had thought that having nothing else to lose he was
invulnerable at last--but he knew that he had just lost something more, as
surely as if he had married Judy Jones and seen her fade away before his eyes.
The dream was gone.
Something had been taken from him.
In a sort of prairie he pushed the palms of his hands into his eyes and
tried to bring up a picture of the waters lapping on Sherry Island and the
moonlit veranda, and gingham on the golf links and the dry sun and gold color
of her neck's soft down. And her mouth
damp to his kisses and her eyes plaintive with melancholy and her freshness
like new fine linen in the morning. Why,
these things were no longer in the world!
They had existed and they existed no longer.
. . . He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go
back anymore. The gates were closed, the
sun was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that
withstands all time.
WOW!
What
are my dreams?
(Long
pause.)
One
of those dreams was to live in England, another, I suppose, is to live
somewhere where it is green and there are big trees. I have a vision of the California coast. But I have never pursued my dream to the
exclusion of all else.
I think back on pursuing M. in 1969. Now that was probably the kind of dream, similar to Gatsby's, makes me think right now that in some ways my life this year has been like it was in 68 -69. I have pursued only what I wanted to, nothing less, nothing more. I suffered in 1969, I behaved as if there were nothing more than M. and writing poetry, and I lost out, I failed the course. This year there was nothing to fail, I suppose, and I had my loved ones with me so I could not totally withdraw from the outside world. I have a bit more confidence now and know a bit more about the world, but my situation is still in many ways the same. I have gambled with money and not with my education, although I maintain that it was money well spent this year to bring the children here. I could have stayed at home and we could have had heaps more money, but in the end we would have spent it there as well.
After
June, 1969 I ended up dropping out of pre-med and taking up English. I had failed the sciences. I wonder how I would be graded now?
Certainly,
I do not appear to have failed as a lawyer.
The opposite seems true. Yet in
spite of this, I pursue my writing avocation frequently enough to merit some
decision, some grade. Perhaps it is this
which I think I have failed, law being closer to the right course, but still
not it.
In
the long run I have not experienced Gatsby's or Dexter's ("Winter
Dreams") disillusion. I have dreams
of M., Malibu, Palisades, Pasadena, England.
They have not died. I know my
dream is false. Perhaps that is the
difference. I know that Cathy, Robert,
Mara, Jeffrey and Thomas are the true dream, wherever we are. I thought that was true, now I feel it as
well. Yet I do have these old
drams. Perhaps I need to disillusion
myself. I do on occasion, but they come
back.
My
book I suppose is/was my attempt to read my dreams and in that attempt I
believe I succeeded. That, after all, is
how we ended up here, pile brick on brick of a foundation of my person, look at
those bricks, take them apart, put them back together again and see what I
have. It is writing that gives me
pleasure, so I will keep at it. Some way.
I
take it for granted that this year will not greatly change our lives. Things will be pretty much as they were when
we get back. I suspect we will fall back
into our old ways. Will it/can it change
us at all? If not, is our year wasted?
Perhaps
it will change our thinking a bit. It is
hard to imagine once again sitting in a partnership meeting, listening to
people talk about themselves, the same old cliches, though I suppose the same
different old cliches exist here. It is
only writers who break the old cliches!!
(Now that's a thought.)
Gatsby
was motivated, yet blinded by his dream/vision of Daisy. Dexter was motivated, yet able to pull
himself beyond the lure only by getting far away from the sight of Judy
Jones. Gatsby, on the other hand, kept
Daisy within sight, and in a fateful way it was his undoing, in the sense that
he allowed his mind to lose sight of his financial doings, ignored them because
he was bewitched by Daisy, yet it was Daisy who may have got him where he
was. Perhaps the moral is to use your
dream, to love it, but to also, in a way, hate, knowing that it will consume
you, be your downfall if you allow it to rule you rather than to inspire you.
As
I was reading "Winter Dreams" I began to see Judy Jones as a symbol
for America. She is rich, she is
talented, carefree, hauntingly desirable.
Yet she has no compunction about leading one or two or more men on at
one time, teasing each of them with thoughts of forever, even in the long run
she is like America because she settles down into a normal family life, very
ordinary.
She
is like America's attraction to novel ideas, embracing many different kinds at
once, loving many different kinds of peoples at once as well. In the long run, however, she settles down to
ordinary family life, and isn't that so American, our attraction with so many
interesting ideas (having no real solid cultural heritage, but freedom), yet in
the end coming down to old fashioned middle class morality/society. Very interesting idea. Was that what Fitzgerald had in mind?
And
what happened to the dejected/rejected lovers (ideas)?
I
suppose that they go on to lead ordinary lives as well, once the dream is
shattered. Yet, interestingly, it is the
false love/idea of America that makes these would be lovers successes, so the wrong
idea is good to begin with. I suppose,
however, the cost is high since it involves the disillusionment of our dreams.
Is
disillusionment something we must experience?
Nick
is even attracted to a bit of the dream.
That, after all, is why he goes to New York City. But he also experiences firsthand what that
dream can do to you, what people are really like as you live that dream. People are uncaring. It is only people like Gatsby who have
imagination to capture/entertain the rest of us.
Where
do my dreams fit into this?
I
suppose if I am like Nick I return home, or if I am like Dexter I run away to
where that dream does not exist. Perhaps
now I understand! For it seems to me
that Las Vegas is a place devoid of all but the basest dreams, where there can
be no temptation to fall for the allure of sentimental and romantic dreams!
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