“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
This secret made my breath catch. It made me feel what i think i ought to feel when i read the ones about lost loves or adultery. Perhaps it is because it is The Great Gatsby, the exact version i have (and one of my favorite book covers). Indeed, if you look closely, it is on my bookshelf – well, you can’t see it at this resolution, but there it is between Jeanette Winterson and Earnest Hemingway (lest you think my bookshelf disorderly, that is the junction of Brit-lit and American-lit). Maybe i just react this way because i’m a bad person. I think, though, that it is because human failure and tragedy seldom surprise me anymore, but literature is supposed to be what you turn to when that happens. It is supposed to be above that.
last sentence of The Great Gatsby