At least once a year, I read The Great Gatsby. In my humble opinion, there is no greater novel I’ve yet to find. My college rock band was named OLDSPORT, after Gatsby’s favorite phrase. The book was the first assigned reading in high school that made me actually care about schoolwork. Its use of language is untouchable, and its themes unravel my soul in new ways every time I pass through it.
I’m thirty-one years old today, and once again, I’m reading Fitzgerald’s masterpiece. I’m reminded of the moment when Nick Carraway suddenly realizes it’s his birthday. I feel almost the same—turbulently entranced by the fullness of life, so much so that even seemingly significant events like birthdays fade into the background unless someone reminds me.
“I just remembered that today’s my birthday. I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.”
I cried while listening to the audiobook’s introduction yesterday. The writer spoke about how time changes your perception of The Great Gatsby. In 11th grade English, you root for Gatsby. His singularity, his undying fervor and passion—they’re contagious to a sixteen-year-old, still untouched by the weight of adulthood. But with age, you begin to see that Gatsby might have been doomed from the start. It was that very singularity—his refusal to change—that became his Achilles’ heel. Despite his devotion and desire, he could not let go of the past or embrace a new version of the future.
I don’t share Nick’s dread about a “menacing road” ahead, though I know there will be many bumps. But I do empathize with him more now. I used to want to be like Gatsby—fierce in my determination to make my desires tangible, no matter the cost. But now I think maybe it’s Nick who deserves more admiration: a gentle passerby, an observer of the fullness of life, a kind-spirited soul who tries to see the best in everyone.
Today, I’m going to kiss my wife often, hug my children tightly, and maybe watch a movie or two. Mostly, I’m hoping to take it all in—every moment this beautiful life has to offer. I’ll try my best to rest in a place where striving can cease and peace can be still. To let yesterday stay with yesterday, and let tomorrow wait until tomorrow.
After all, as Fitzgerald writes so eloquently:
“Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… and one fine morning—”