So here's the thing: The Great Gatsby just wasn't as great as I thought it would be.

Now, don't interpret this the wrong way: Fitzgerald's flowing, incandescent prose entranced me. My eyes were glued to each immaculately crafted phrase. But then it all stopped dead, severing the story of emotion and promise. The lack of pages left me hungry and slightly disappointed.
The Great Gatsby, in case you are wondering, is one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's acclaimed, towering masterpieces; a spectacle of human deception and weakness, debauchery and love, as cast under the sparkling canopy of the Jazz era.

Nick Carraway, the narrator of the story, moves to the affluent West Egg of Long Island after he finds work as a bonds-seller in glittering Manhattan. Carraway soon discovers that he is next-door neighbours with the mysterious and elusive Gatsby.

His decadent parties are the talk of the whole state of New York and everyone has a tale to share concerning Gatsby. Although the rumours labelling him as a murderer or a distant cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm II may not be based on fact, his love for the tragically beautiful debutante, Daisy Buchanan, is unquestionably true. Carraway observes the nature of the pairs' desires - and how their carelessness results in their downfall.

The romance reported between Daisy and Gatsby is kept to a minimum, which greatly appeals. It augments the mystery of the story and hints rather than simply and bluntly tells. Despite my previous disparagement, I would recommend at least attempting to read this book.

Fitzgerald is a natural storyteller and his literary prowess has entranced his readers for decades. I simply want to profess that the story leaves something to be desired. A bitter aftertaste of longing is left on our lips - one that can be filled only with the stretching of our own imaginations.

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