The Great Gatsbyby F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s third book, stands as the supreme achievement of his career. This exemplary novel of the Jazz Age has been acclaimed by generations of readers. The story of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, of lavish parties on Long Island at a time when The New York Times/i>/i>
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The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s third book, stands as the supreme achievement of his career. This exemplary novel of the Jazz Age has been acclaimed by generations of readers. The story of the fabulously wealthy Jay Gatsby and his love for the beautiful Daisy Buchanan, of lavish parties on Long Island at a time when The New York Times noted “gin was the national drink and sex the national obsession,” it is an exquisitely crafted tale of America in the 1920s.
The Great Gatsby is one of the great classics of twentieth-century literature.
“Canadian readers are indeed fortunate to have Michael Nowlin’s extremely useful edition of The Great Gatsby. Nowlin provides a wealth of ancillary materials that enhance our understanding and appreciation of Fitzgerald’s masterpiece: a selection of Fitzgerald’s correspondence about Gatsby; eight advertisements that graphically demonstrate the commodity culture underlying the novel; and, perhaps most worthwhile of all, a selection of contemporary essays that supply an invaluable contextual framework for Gatsby. Throughout, Nowlin’s emphasis is on the quality, not quantity of these materials; the result is a book that will be indispensable to students, teachers, and the casual reader alike.” Jackson R. Bryer, University of Maryland
“This edition of The Great Gatsby confirms what Fitzgerald Society members have long believed: Michael Nowlin is a leader in the emerging generation of Fitzgerald scholars. His introduction here charts the intensely personal journey through love, loss, and ambition that Fitzgerald traveled in order to realize his masterpiece; Nowlin’s appendices, meanwhile, provide secondary sources for appreciating the chaotic energies of youth, race, and cultural change compelling the novel’s inexorable tragedy. Whether excerpting Fitzgerald’s mid-1920s correspondence, contemporary reviews, or nonfiction gems of the dayincluding Zelda Fitzgerald’s insightful ‘What Became of the Flappers?’ (1925)Nowlin dramatizes how thoroughly Jay Gatsby’s creator intuited the sadness and uncertainty beneath the glitz and gild of modernity’s most golden of decades.” Kirk Curnutt, Troy University, Vice-President of the F. Scott Fitzgerald Society
Read an Excerpt
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave
me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me,
“just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had
the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually
communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he
meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m
inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up
many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of
not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect
and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal
person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly
accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret
griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were
unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or
a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that
an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the
intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in
which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred
by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of
infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if
I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly
repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled
out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to
the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded
on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point
I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from
the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in
uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted
no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the
human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to
this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented
everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If
personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then
there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened
sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one
of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten
thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do
with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under
the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary
gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have
never found in any other person and which it is not likely I
shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the
end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in
the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my
interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this
Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are
something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re
descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual
founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came
here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and
started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like
him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting
that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New
Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and
a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration
known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly
that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm
center of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the
ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn
the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business,
so I supposed it could support one more single man. All
my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a
prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very
grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year,
and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought,
in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was
a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns
and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested
that we take a house together in a commuting town,
it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weatherbeaten
cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last
minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out
to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a
few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish
woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered
Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man,
more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I
was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually
conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves
growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had
that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again
with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much
fine health to be pulled down out of the young breathgiving
air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit
and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red
and gold like new money from the mint, promising to
unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and
Mæcenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading
many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—
one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials
for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back
all such things into my life and become again that most limited
of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t
just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at
from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house
in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was
on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of
New York—and where there are, among other natural
curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles
from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour
and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most
domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere,
the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not
perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are
both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical
resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the
gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting
phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except
shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the
two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the
bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My
house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the
Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for
twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was
a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation
of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one
side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble
swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and
garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know
Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion, inhabited by a gentleman of
that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small
eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the
water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling
proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable
East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer
really begins on the evening I drove over there to have
dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second
cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just
after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments,
had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football
at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those
men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one
that everything afterward savors of anticlimax. His family were
enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with
money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago
and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away;
for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies
from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own
generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year
in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and
there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich
together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the
telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s
heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a
little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I
drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely
knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I
expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion,
overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and
ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping
over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally
when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines
as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken
by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected
gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom
Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart
on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he
was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard
mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant
eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him
the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not
even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the
enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening
boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could
see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved
under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous
leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the
impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch
of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—
and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,”
he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a
man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and
while we were never intimate I always had the impression that
he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some
harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat
hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken
Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a
snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me
around again, politely and abruptly. “ We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosycolored
space, fragilely bound into the house by French
windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming
white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little
way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew
curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags,
twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling,
and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a
shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an
enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed
up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in
white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they
had just been blown back in after a short flight around the
house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the
whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on
the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the
rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room,
and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned
slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was
extended full length at her end of the divan, completely
motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing
something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she
saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—
indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for
having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she
leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then
she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed
too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.”
She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and
held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face,
promising that there was no one in the world she so much
wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur
that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve
heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people
lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me
almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head
back again—the object she was balancing had obviously
tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a
sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of
complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions
in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear
follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of
notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and
lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate
mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that
men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a
singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she
had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there
were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on
my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear
wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent
wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then
she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s——”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about
the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing
at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something
more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness
that I started—it was the first word she had uttered
since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much
as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft
movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa
for as long as I can remember.”
“ Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to
get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in
from the pantry, “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in
the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got
done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, smallbreasted
girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by
throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young
cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with
polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented
face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a
picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I
know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single——”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
What People are saying about this
Meet the Author
F. Scott Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1896, attended Princeton University, and published his first novel, This Side of Paradise, in 1920. That same year he married Zelda Sayre and the couple divided their time among New York, Paris, and the Riviera, becoming a part of the American expatriate circle that included Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, and John Dos Passos. Fitzgerald was a major new literary voice, and his masterpieces include The Beautiful and Damned, The Great Gatsby, and Tender Is the Night. He died of a heart attack in 1940 at the age of forty-four, while working on The Love of the Last Tycoon. For his sharp social insight and breathtaking lyricism, Fitzgerald is known as one of the most important American writers of the twentieth century.
- Date of Birth:
- September 24, 1896
- Date of Death:
- December 21, 1940
- Place of Birth:
- St. Paul, Minnesota
- Princeton University
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Want to buy. Will not. YOU CAN NOT JUSTIFY CHARGING THIS PRICE FOR THIS BOOK. CAN NOT. I HATE having to complain but this trend of jacking up prices for our computer file nooks is becoming common practice and is an insult to the intelligence of every nook/nookcolor owner. And we can't use our discount card for what reason. We want to be loyal customers. Please inspire us to do so. If you did not know, we want quality nookbooks and apps at fair prices. If you are a fellow nook owner and see an example of nookbook price abuse, add a comment to your review. Or not.
Though the ending isn't Disney-worthy (my usual preference), Fitzgerald did a marvelous job. The book centers around the mysterious character of Gatsby, and, as you turn the pages, his history unravels before your eyes, as well as the narrator's--Nick. Nick is an "average" guy whom we feel we can trust--because he follows his father's advice and does not immediately judge (or so he says). The book will make you yearn for a love you know is impossible, cringe with embarrassment at a shameful past, blush at the awkwardness encountered on nearly every page, laugh and cry at the dramatic irony, and have you researching the Charleston (the dance, not the city--this is set in the 1920s, after all!). It may not be considered a typical love story, but the electricity between Daisy and Gatsby is too strong to deny and it always has me wondering what will happen (though I know). Read for irony, read for lessons, read to be taken back to another time--no, another dimension in which the music never dies and the party is perpetual.
Too expensive! I was planning to buy, but I will look for a hard copy. If you want happy nook owners, dont overcharge for classics!
As soon as a reader opens up their copy of The Great Gatsby they will find themselves thrust into the world of 1920's America. This "Jazz Age" featured the prodigious house parties that the prohibition era was known for. But none of the parties thrown could match the lavishness of the festivities at the Gatsby residence on West Egg, Long Island, especially if you were viewing them from the house of his neighbor Nick Carraway. Nick, being a 29 year old bondsman from Minnesota, would have not expected to be around such a lively atmosphere in the first place and could not be prepared in the very least for the summer that was ahead of him while living next to the Gatsby estate. His summer that year nudged him in the directions of such themes as materialism, adultery, murder and life. Through this time, Nick finds himself telling the story of his events on Long Island that summer and how he progressed through a rite of passage which can also connect to the timeless self-discoveries gone through by all readers throughout their lives. But F. Scott Fitzgerald developed his story further from the narrator's rite of passage and developed a tragic figure that is the focus of the story's title, Jay Gatsby. Jay is the charismatic next door neighbor of Nick, who has more mystery surrounding him than he does house guests. Jay's story revolves around Nick's cousin, Daisy, whom Jay has continued to be devoted to even though their relationship had ended years ago. Those who have felt the hurt of a broken heart can relate to the emotions expressed by both Daisy and Jay while they find themselves immersed in the complications of this love during the book. The immersion in which readers can find themselves experiencing is the reason why this book has not stopped birthing positive review after positive review. F. Scott Fitzgerald has truly created a time portal to the 1920's through this literary masterpiece for all to experience and escape from their own worlds and venture into a life much different than their own.
Its high way robbery at its best. Yes we want to read but NOT BE ROBBED.
I've read this novella over and over again and love it more each time I read it. There is one part that drags on a bit, and that is when it rattles off names of guests at one of Gatsby's elaborate parties, but other than that, it is perfection. Jay Gatsby is probably F. Scott Fitzgerald's best characters. I can really empathize with him. This work also shows Fitzgerald's improvement in his use of dialogue, which is a bit weak in his previous novels. At only 188 pages, it is a quick read, but a read that will stick with you forever.
Kindle has the book for $4.99
Everything is much cheaper on kindle. May switch perminatly!
Why on kindle is this exact book $4.99 come on B&N this is not helping retain customers
It is an awesome book but the ebook version is too expensive. I suggest just getting a hard copy
I haven't read the complete book yet because the last chapter is missing from this copy. Do not buy it.
This book has been named a classic and I would have to completely agree with that. The book is an amazing novel that captures the early 1900s with amazing accuracy. If you enjoy American literature and history this book is a must read. The writing is exquisite and the higher class of America is excellently portrayed. Fitzgerald's characters will make you question yourself and ethics as they become enthralled in the drama that surrounds them. The book is amazing for discussions and will have to become a permanent fixture in your life after reading it once. This realsitic novel will make you think more than most other classics!
The Great Gatsby... When I was first assigned to read this book the title did not sound appealing to me. If I was assigned this book in the past, I would have figured it would have been a typical book I had to read for school boring. Even though the title does not sound to appealing to me, I trusted my teacher enough to give the book a a chance. As I begin reading the book I did not understand why it was called ¿The Great Gatsby¿ because the character Gatsby never talked to anyone nor did anyone get to visualize him. As I read through the book , I eventually noticed why it was called the `Great Gatsby¿ and understood why the author picked the title of this book. The Great Gatsby showed the time during the 1920¿s and how it was. Things such as the parties, the poor life, the rich life, cars, and fashion to name a few. The book consisted of two young people [Daisy and Gatsby] in love, but broken apart because Gatsby [who was poor] had to go to war. Daisy ended up not waiting for Gatsby and married a rich fellow named Tom. Tom and Daisy had a child together, but lived a marriage of lies. He had cheated on her with many women due to the unstable choice of marriage. Gatsby came back from war and made something of himself. He became very wealthy and successful. He did this to try to win his old love Daisy back. Years later the both had houses near each other, and Gatsby tried his hardest to get back with Daisy. He thought he could relive the past with her and rekindle there love. Although I enjoyed the book the ending was not how I planned it to turn out in my head. One thing I liked about the ending was how it showed money does not give you everything and you cannot always buy love and happiness, nor a perfect life. The book showed two sides, the life of the poor and the life of the rich. Both ways you can be happy, you just have to find your happiness in yourself and life. You understand in this book that money can buy you nice things, but cannot always buy you love.
Only contains 7 of the 9 chapters of this book. It's bad enough you charge 2 bucks for something that cost you nothing, buton top of that you are too lazy gibe include the final 2 chapters? However is in charge of this needs to do the world a favor and swallow a bullet.
This edition is missing the last two chapters! Very frustrating.
Not a full book
Doesn't work well on nook. Some words run together; others are split between lines without hyphens or regsrd to syllables.
I just finished this book. I loved it. There is always something watching over them like that eye doctor sign with the glasses. Also when Gatsby had his parties there was that guy with the owl eyed glasses. I liked how he tied it together with the same owl eyed guy at the end. The end was very sudden and a bit confusing. It really made me think. I noticed it doesn't have much of a moral if any which makes it different because most books have a moral. I think he did a nice job. I am excited to see the movie. Our class couldn't agree which side Nick's house was on...right or left...I pictured it on the right.
If you are looking at this on your nook dont buy the black covered cheaper book. It is not the full book! It is a waste of money.
Everyone knows about the book “The Great Gatsby’. It’s one of Americas Literature masterpiece. The book’s plot is simple. It’s a forbidden love story with a twist. The twist isn’t shocking but predictable like a season finale of soap opera. What draws the reader into the book is the mystery behind Jay Gatsby and his love for Daisy. From the beginning, the obvious fact about Gatsby is that he’s very wealthy and liked by most. He’s also has a lot of rumors and stories about how he got his wealth which is a leading fact to the conflict in the story’s plot. What’s also good about the book is that many people will interpret the books plot and/or main point differently. One for example is that it was a story about Nick Carraway, Gatsby’s neighbor and friend, who sort of goes on a short but slightly epic life journey to discover who jay Gatsby and to find out why is he so mysterious to others. Another is Carrway’s friendship with the Gatsby and the summer at which he spends with him that involves experiences with love, hate and mystery. Overall , however you interpreted the book the book is worth reading and each page you draws you in more and more.
Truly a classic; Fitzgerald beautifully paints the 20's era with the new sensations of money and bootlegging and partying in his fantastic novel. His superb writing details the life of Nick Carraway with his friend, a new wealth, Jay Gatsby, who longs for the married Daisy Buchanan. The trials of trying to get her shows how flawed Gatsby is, and therefore, fulfilling the title of the book, how truly great he is. Fitzgerald's writing intoxicates the reader into this forgotten world. His sentences really do stand up and take a little bow.
Its missing the last chapters only 101 pages
How can you charge over $10!! Insane!! Kindle edition is just $5. I might as well purchase the paperback and use my discount card at the brick and morter store. I would LOVE to purchase on my nook, but 10 bucks? Really?
While I did enjoy the book, this is version is missing a huge part of the ending. It ended on page 100 with me feeling like the story left you hanging and wondering what all the fuss was about this novel. Luckily, my husband had recently read a hard copy of the book and I was able to realize that the whole ending was left off! So if you read this version thinking you've experieced the entire novel, think again! After reading the book to it's end, I would definitely recommend it. I've always been pleased with the books I've bought on my Nook, but this situation really disappointed me.
The book closes at pages 131-167.... so you c ant read the whole book :(