Gatsby Pastiche Outline

By: Kaitlyn Akel 3P

January 2014

Introduction
In F. Scott Fitzgeralds The Great Gatsby, character Jay Gatsby is the mysterious boot-
legger with an ambiguous reputation. Ive chosen a pastiche in his point of view that overlooks
key points in the novel such as when he meets Nick Carraway, the lunch with Meyer Wolfsheim,
as well as the events with Daisy Buchanan, leading up to his death. Upon examination of the
novel, Ive come to find that Gatsby wasnt crazy, but through everything, he had one objective:
and that was to repeat the past alongside Daisy Buchanan. I used words alike those that
Fitzgerald used in his work to further immerse myself in Gatsbys mind and ideals. Furthermore,
I believe that while Nick Carraway believes that Gatsby was great, Fitzgeralds representation of
the Great Gatsby was, in fact, satirical.
Thesis:
Jay Gatsby is shallow man with simple morals, who is easily compelled by his
radical sense of affection for Daisy, his secretiveness with Nick, in turn showing how
alone Gatsby really is.

Works Cited (MLA format)
1. Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. New York, NY: Scribner, 1996. Print.
Youre probably curious as to why Im here, or even how. To be honest, Mr. Eckleberg,
Im not sure. I do not recall my means of getting here. Maybe God is laughing at the foolish
ostentation that is my life, and has decided to give me a second chance. But, that no longer
matters. Im here today, to tell you my side, and how I came to sit on your hill, in the Valley of
Ashes, after all I have encountered this summer.
I remember overlooking my balcony amongst the crowded, yet vacuous courtyard; at the
multitudes of people who had not known one veritable thing about me. Although they claimed to
be my closest friends, I passed through their gatherings in plain sight, overhearing the gab and
gossip of the night, in hopes of stumbling upon my new neighbor. I had been observing him from
the lucarne window in my study and I had concluded that he was a quiet yet curious, narrow-
shouldered man who kept to himself, but it was not out of an aggressive nature. I sent him an
invitation to this soirree- he was the only guest of whom I cared if he attended or not. Well, aside
from Daisy. But in the five years I had lived in that mansion, not once had I seen her face full of
light and pulchritude set foot there.
I continued my search until I came across Miss Jordan Baker, at which time I headed in
her direction. I opened my mouth in greeting until I saw the man standing next to her. I
immediately recognized his demeanor as that of my expected guest: Mr. Nick Carraway.
At first I felt elated that he gave this boisterous affair a chance. Once that feeling had
passed I knew I had to make a silent entrance, introduce myself. Everything has to be perfect, I
thought, It must.
I began to walk toward the pair and found myself standing with them at the table, along
with a small girl who had had too much to drink; she went in a fit of giggles at the slightest
grievance. We had sat down and I observed as Mr. Carraway took two flutes of champagne and
offered one to Miss Baker, who knew me well enough, yet was eyeing me curiously.
After a while, I figured I should introduce myself. Upon a closer glance, I realized that I
had seen his face before, in a different time.
I looked at him and smiled, Your face is familiar, I said, with the utmost politeness.
Werent you in the Third Division during the war?
He looked at me as if he were struggling to place me. Why, yes. I was in the ninth
machine-gun battalion. he said.
I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eighteen. I knew Id seen you
somewhere before.
We continued to discuss the war and reminisce about a few gloomy villages in France. I
told him I resided in the area, and that I had just purchased a hydroplane. I was going to try it out
in the morning with the hopes that he would join me.
Want to go with me, old sport? I said, remembering my late mentor Dan Cody, just
near the shore along the Sound.
What time? he asked.
Any time that suits you best. I replied.
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but Miss Baker reared her sharp head towards him
and grinned, Having a gay time now?
Much better. He had said. He turned to me, as if he wished to confide in me some
secret. This is an unusual party for me. I havent seen the host. I live over there, he gestured
past my courtyard in the general direction where I knew his little house stood. After all, I owned
it, and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.
I looked at him, a bit dumbstruck. I just about laughed. I couldnt imagine the irony Miss
Baker mustve been feeling at that moment.
Im Gatsby. I said, and it looked as if I had startled him.
What! he exclaimed, in shock, Oh, I beg your pardon.
I thought you knew, old sport. Of course he didnt, but I had to keep the appearance
going. Im afraid Im not a very good host.
I smiled at him, a very convincing one, and I tried to push all my understanding into it. In
my mind, I reassured him, that I meant well, that I could use a companion. However, as soon as
things returned to their hectic usual, I saw suspicion cloud his eyes. As if he were reading the
slight deceit I had set up for us, with my big words and my sheer politeness. There was question
in his eyes.
Of course, I couldnt blame him; he didnt know me one bit, yet I needed him, so I could
get to Daisy.
Shortly afterwards, my butler rushed towards me and whispered to me about dreaded
Chicago on the phone. I looked at Mr. Carraway. Surely I couldve given him some sort of
reassurance despite what he had just heard. Then I thought: money, materials. The portrait of
success.
If you want anything just ask for it, old sport, I said with urgency, Excuse me. I will
rejoin you later.
I then left the pair, believing I had done the right thing, to answer Chicagos call. A while
later, I sent my butler out again to fetch Miss Baker, for I had a plan. And I needed to tell her
everything.
Later on that evening, actually morning, it was around two, we exited my library to find
Mr. Carraway in the hall, presumably waiting for Ms. Baker. I uttered a few last words, about the
plan, about what she should say to him, and finally turned her loose. She went to Mr. Carraway,
eyebrows raised in delight and excitement and talked in a dazed voice. I heard bits and pieces, of
her parting words until her rambunctious party met with her at my door.
Mr. Carraway began to amble on over to where my guests had gathered around me. He
met up with me and apologized fiercely for having not known me back in the garden.
Dont mention it, I told him, for I meant it. Dont give it another thought, old sport.
He probably thought I was an odd one, brushing his shoulder as if we were good friends who had
stumbled upon each other downtown.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments more, confirmed the time of the
hydroplane session, and said goodnight.
Now, the next day, Mr. Eckleberg, was pretty hectic, though enjoyable. Mr. Carraway
seemed to be pleased. I mistook his suspicion from the previous night for just analysis, and
curiosity. He was very good natured and whatever judgments he held, he never passed them. I
truly admired that about him. In high society life, that was all you heard. Ive heard a fair amount
about myself as I passed among the congregations at my affairs. They claimed, with slight
distaste, that I killed a man, I was second cousin to the Kaiser, I went to Oxford, the latter being
somewhat true. But I never stopped to prove them wrong, or tell them more things. You see, I
wanted to prolong this illusion of the Gatsby that they perceived. Maybe that is cracked or a
bit insane, however, to be honest, I felt proud, that my name continued to be uttered from their
mouths. It was a game to me. It was vain and foolish, but a game nonetheless.
The weeks passed, and more parties and affairs went by. The alcohol flowed like blood
and the same multitudes of folks continued to show up at my door. Mr. Carraway appeared a
couple times, though he was always on the outside of things, in what seemed to be an aloof, yet
vigilant state.
It wasnt until late July that I decided to directly pay him a visit. I rolled up in front of his
house in my cream-colored custom-made car. It had a pristine engine and rich leather seats.
Good morning, old sport. I said to him, Youre having lunch with me today and I
thought wed ride up together.
He seemed rather perplexed at my sudden appearance. We hadnt spoken to each other
but six meager times, and now I was inviting him to lunch, no, telling him he was coming to
lunch. To me it sounded insurmountably grand at the moment. Now, with hindsight, it sounds
almost idiosyncratic, that a shallow and vociferous man would all of a sudden, up and drive to
his quiet next-door neighbors house and tell him we were going to share some time together. He
wouldve been right to think I was a fool. Even yet, he climbed into the vehicle, and we were off.
After a few uncomfortable minutes and several run-on sentences, I asked:
Look here, old sport, whats your opinion of me, anyhow?
He looked at me, overwhelmed with the idea that Id spring so much upon him on such
short notice. I continued:
Well, Im going to tell you something about my life. I dont want you to get a wrong
idea of me from all these stories you hear. I raised my right hand in reverence to our maker, I
am the son of some wealthy people in the middle westall dead now. I was brought up in
America but educated at Oxford
I began to dish out the forgery that I had inaugurated for myself. No one, except Jordan
Baker and Daisy Buchannan knew the truth behind my alias, the man behind the visage. And
Daisy had left me for it.
I continued to tell him my story (that was all it was really, though there was some truth,
such as the war) and I showed him my medal I had received graciously from the King of
Montenegro as well as the photograph that was taken on the Trinity Quad at Oxford.
the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster. I told him.
I took a spare glimpse at him to find the skepticism in his orbs had cleared some. He had
swallowed my story with not much difficulty.
Im going to make a big request of you today, I started, as I took my memorabilia
from him. so I thought you ought to know something about me. I didnt want you to think I was
just some nobody. I swallowed, You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift
here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me. I paused for a mere moment,
back to the ploy, Youll hear about it this afternoon.
At lunch? he asked.
No, this afternoon. I happened to find out that youre taking Miss Baker to tea.
Do you mean youre in love with Miss Baker?
No, old sport, Im not. I chuckled inwardly, at the thought, But Miss Baker has kindly
consented to speak to you about this matter.
He seemed miffed at that moment, that I had come to find out about his personal affairs.
The air grew tense, and I could see a slight vexation in his eyes. The remainder of the voyage
along the Queensboro Bridge and into New York was quiet, for I refused to say another word on
the matter.
Lunch with Wolfsheim was fine, however, I sensed that Mr. Carraway felt out of place,
and that he was still displeased with me. He conversed mundanely with Wolfsheim, however,
when I confided in him with a cheering smile, that I made him angry in the car before, he
answered, rather curtly:
I dont like mysteries, and I dont understand why you wont come out frankly and tell
me what you want. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker?
After that, unfortunately, I had to leave. Another dreaded phone-call. When I came back,
there werent any altercations; I believe Mr. Wolfsheim had calmed Mr. Carraway down. For
me, lunch had ended on a sour note; Mr. Tom Buchannan, husband of my beloved Daisy
Buchannan had shown up.
Of course, Mr. Carraway did not understand yet, though he did note the disconcerted look
on my face. I must get out of here.
So, by the time Mr. Carraway turned to introduce me to the hulking brute of a man, I was
out of sight.
I saw Daisy Buchannan two days later.
Mr. Carraway and Miss Baker had met up that last evening for tea and Miss Baker had
explained to Mr. Carraway about the tragedy that had happened years ago.
We were in love, Daisy and I. In the summer of 1917, I was lieutenant in the army and
the femme fatale had many suitors on the phone, vying to make her acquaintance. I had to pack
up and head to New York; America had just entered the war and I was being sent overseas to the
battlefield. The war was very cathartic and barren. There was no complexity or convolution.
Only desperation and death. I felt so devoid of vitality, I thought of Daisy and our possible life
together. Obviously, not knowing that she had stopped waiting for me, I sent her a letter telling
her everything. Where I was truly from, that I was as penniless as new beggar. I figured, I could
die vindicated and in love with a beautiful woman even though she undoubtedly did not desire
me any longer.
So, when I met her after those five years of miserable parties, everything had to be
perfect. Now that I had the money, and the reputation, I believed she would love me again.
Because really, money was all she cared for. Deep down, I knew that. Yet, everything I did, the
money, the parties, it was all for her.
Those first thirty minutes of our meeting were undeniably maladroit and clumsy. But
after a while, I was absolutely enthralled by her voice, enveloped in her charisma. It was just like
how it was before. There was no Tom, no rain, no Mr. Carraway. Just a careless summer in a
white coupe, with an alluring woman and a green light, full of hope and renewal. That was the
first feeling.
It was all I felt, actually, until that sweltering afternoon weeks later, when Mr. Carraway,
Miss Baker, and the Buchanans and I had all settled in the Plaza Hotel, hoping to cool off. The
air was tense; Mr. Buchanan had had his suspicions about Daisys fidelity before and had kept a
close eye on the pair of us the whole day. You actually saw us, on our commute there. But Im
sure you see a variety of pitiful souls pass by your pervading gaze.
Tom Buchanan challenged me, query after query, finally spewing about self-control and
interracial marriage, looking like he was on the verge of incivility. He called me out on the affair
like a savaged man, rabid with confusion and rage. Daisy called him revolting, called him out on
his little sprees and the injustice of it all. At the end of it, Tom said to me, something that I
could never really shake. It had finally convinced me of the unchangeable past, that what Daisy
and I had now was a prolepsis, a dying anachronism in our lives.
He said: Whythere are things between Daisy and me that youll never know, things that
neither of us can ever forget.
As soon as those words were spoken, I knew she was already gone. There was no viable
way, for us to authentically and earnestly be together.
Shaken and fretful, we drove off, Daisy and I. She claimed that driving it calmed her
down, so I let her take the wheel. She was in tatters; I knew I shouldnt have let her. But she was
just so broken and in a daze. And once I heard the shatter of glass and the sickly thud of a body
behind us, she panicked and lost control. I knew then, that my fate had been sealed, because I
had to take the fall for Daisy and what she had irreversibly done. She had so much to lose, her
daughter, her life, whereas I had nothing but a humongous shell of brick and plaster. Tom could
take care of her; hide her behind their vast fortunes. I couldnt without that undying nostalgia of
what our lives were before, and that was the impossibility.
So, I gunned the gas, and the car roared into the night. Days later, I was found dead by
the victims husbands hand, and devoid of my light and endless hope.
Still, Mr. Eckleberg, Im not sure why I came here, of all places. Ive walked everywhere.
Ive seen everything. I think I just I needed exoneration, and freedom from all the things
Ive done. Youve been here for a number of years. Theres an ageless acuity to you, a sort of
omniscience that looms above us all when we pass under your gaze. I felt a need of justification
to truly be content with myself. Maybe thats all every foolish man needs, justification. Because
he knows deep down, he needs acceptance for all the morally corrupt things he has done in his
life, so that he can pass on with a clear conscience and the knowledge that he has done some
apocryphal greatness in his days.