The Great Gatsby: The Final Passage of Chapter I

The craft of editing and revising a manuscript is often described as a process of discovery. As a writer continues to look at a creative work and polish it for publication, revisions and other changes are inevitable. F. Scott Fitzgerald, while revising his novel The Great Gatsby, made several significant changes to the first chapter of the novel. In particular, the addition of the green light to the end of the first chapter (Fitzgerald, Great Gatsby 64) introduces an important metaphorical image and foreshadows many of the events that occur throughout the rest of the novel. This and other alterations to the final paragraph of the first chapter alter the atmosphere of the entire chapter, leaving the reader unsettled and off balance.

In earlier versions of The Great Gatsby, there is no mention of the green light in the final passage of the first chapter. One draft version the final passage of the first chapter of The Great Gatsby reads:

"I got to my feet and was about to call out when suddenly I saw [Gatsby] stretch out both hands toward the skin in a curious way—and as far as I was from him I could have sworn that he was trembling. Involuntarily I looked up. When I looked down again he was gone, and I was left to wonder whether it was really the sky he had come out to measure with the compass of those aspiring arms." (Fitzgerald, Facsimile of a Manuscript 37)

This is a lovely passage and it is quite well written, but its imagery is at once both too benign and too soothing for the end of the first chapter. The term “aspiring arms” is soothing, calming, and induces a sense of comfort and relaxation in the reader. It is a settled image, a peaceful image. In addition, the use of the word “gone” to describe how Gatsby disappears as Nick glances away for a brief instant is benign, doing nothing to contribute to the imagery or emotion that could be present in the final moments of the first chapter.

In Trimalchio, the imagery is quite different in the final passage of the first chapter. It is closer to the published version, using many of the same images Fitzgerald ultimately decides to keep in the final version. Specifically, the end of the first chapter reads:

"But I didn’t call to [Gatsby] for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and as far as I was from him I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—there was nothing to be seen except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Mr. Gatsby he had gone, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness." (Fitzgerald, Trimalchio 20)

The Great Gatsby is structured using a series of metaphorical images. One of the most powerful of these images, the green light, is introduced in the final passage of the first chapter. This reference to the green light remains in the final published version of the novel. Since the end of a dock would often have been marked with a single light, it makes sense for Fitzgerald to add the light to the setting of this scene.

However, the green light does more than simply make sense in the scene. It performs a symbolic function and has many metaphorical meanings. On one level, the light at the end of the dock is simply a warning, both to people and to boats on the water. This warning can be applied to Gatsby. He should not pursue Daisy but chooses to do so anyway. He ignores every warning throughout the novel. This passage, where Nick sees the green light, foreshadows much of what will occur throughout the novel, mostly concerning the romantic relationship between Gatsby and Daisy and how poorly their association ultimately ends.

The color green itself is a significant addition to the final passage of the first chapter. Green is indicative of envy, hope, new life, and wealth. All of these themes come into play in later chapters of The Great Gatsby. Gatsby envies the upper classes, covets Daisy, and generally wants those things he cannot have or is not entitled to. He hopes to win Daisy, and through her to achieve a new life for himself, a life he has always sought but has had difficulty attaining. Gatsby also strives for wealth, willing to go to many lengths to achieve this wealth. The green light, which appears in the final passage of the first chapter, suggests those goals Gatsby hopes to achieve.

The green light, in many instances, is associated with Daisy. She gives out green cards (Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 123) for kisses in “Chapter VI” and she herself is wealthy. In addition, green is related to the sirens of ancient Greece. These sirens would beckon sailors to their deaths, much as Daisy beckons Gatsby. In a sense, Daisy is a siren, and by adding the green light to the final passage of the first chapter, Fitzgerald is making a direct reference to Daisy and foreshadowing the events that occur in later chapters.

Finally, green is mentioned in the last chapter. “Gatsby believed in the green light” (Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 176), reached for the unattainable, and though he did not get what he wanted, Nick admires him for the effort. Green is the symbol of hope, sometimes fruitless hope, and the mention of the green light in the first chapter gives the rest of the novel a sense of anticipation, intriguing the reader and drawing him or her deeper into the story.

Though the addition of the green light to the final passage of the first chapter is significant, it is not the only change to this passage that has an effect on the reader. The term “unquiet darkness” is unsettling, giving the entire chapter a disconcerting atmosphere. The reader is left off balance and just a little uncomfortable. This is a more powerful image than “aspiring arms” and sets the reader up for the chapters to follow.

In the final published version of The Great Gatsby, the passage remains almost identical to what it was in Trimalchio. This passage reads:

"I didn’t call to [Gatsby], for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of the dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness." (Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby 64)

The notable difference here is the use of the word “vanished” to describe Gatsby’s absence. This is not a casual word. By saying that Gatsby vanishes, Fitzgerald shrouds Gatsby in a sense of mystery and power. Gatsby becomes like a magician, and this idea is repeated throughout the novel.

There are many differences between the first available drafts of The Great Gatsby and the final product. What Fitzgerald “cut out of it both physically and emotionally would make another novel” (Fitzgerald, “Introduction to Modern Library Reprint” 140). The changes made to the final passage of the first chapter take what might have been a soothing and gentle piece and transforms it into something unsettling and disturbing. This leaves the reader off balance and prepared for the atmosphere and general theme of the rest of the novel. Fitzgerald “thoroughly and expertly practiced the craft of revision” (Eble 81) when revising this paragraph to create a powerful and moving passage.

Works Cited

Eble, Kenneth E. "The Craft of Revision: The Great Gatsby." In F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Collection of Criticism. Ed. Eble. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1973. 81-92. Print.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. Ed and Introd. Michael Nowlin. Peterborough : Broadview Editions, 2007. Print.

_ _ _. The Great Gatsby: A Facsimile of the Manuscript. Ed and Introd. Matthew Bruccoli. Washington : Microcard Editions Books, 1973. Print.

_ _ _. “Introduction to the Modern Library Reprint of The Great Gatsby.” 1934. In F Scott Fitzgerald on Authorship. Ed. Mathew J. Bruccoli and Judith S. Baughman. 139-41. Print.

_ _ _. Trimalchio: An Early Version of The Great Gatsby. [c. 1924] Ed. James L.W. West III. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000. Print.

Kuehl, John. Creative Writing and Rewriting: Contemporary American Novelists at Work. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1967. Print.

The Hidden Room: A Poet’s Choice and Its Effects

The creative process is often described as a process of discovery. As the writer delves into the specifics of the creative work, revisions and other changes are inevitable. P.K. Page, while writing her poem “The Hidden Room,” made several significant changes that affect the way in which the poem is read and interpreted. In particular, the relocation and eventual deletion of the first stanza of “The Hidden Room” alters the way in which the reader perceives the poem. In the end, “in the final draft, Page discarded her opening stanza, which explicitly locates the “room” in a dream” (Wallenstein and Burr 119). The effect of this decision changes the feel of the poem from the familiar to the mystical.

In the initial draft of the poem, the first stanza clearly places the “room” in a dream. The use of these lines as the opening stanza sets the tone for the entire poem. The poet firmly establishes that the poem relates to a dream or possibly a series of dreams. This tells the reader that the “room” in the poem is not quite real. It is only a part of the dream and no more important than any other dream might be. The poem that follows this stanza is well crafted and reflects the inspiration of the poet, but the presence of the original first stanza relegates the beauty of the poem to the realm of the dream, the realm of the improbable and the fantastical. The first stanza is lovely, but it establishes the poem as ordinary.

In later drafts of “The Hidden Room,” P.K. Page moves the first stanza so that it becomes the last stanza. The effect of this decision is substantial. Without the immediate presence of a stanza that clearly places the rest of the poem in a dream, the reader is drawn immediately into the poem. The poem has an almost mystical quality about it as the “room” is described as if it actually exists in the world. The “room” could almost be a physical place where the poet goes on a frequent basis, but “only when it permits [the poet]” (Page 3). The “room” is certainly real enough for the poet. The reader is gently pulled into what might be the imagination or the creativity of the poet.

In this draft of the poem, however, the first stanza has become the last stanza. The reader encounters the idea that the entire poem, and the “room” itself, is located in a dream after having read the poem in its entirety. After establishing the “room” as possibly a real and powerful place, the poet shatters this illusion for the reader simply by leaving the “dream” stanza at the end of the poem. The reader discovers that the magic and mystery of the “room” is nothing more than a dream. The poem that was mysterious and mystical becomes as plain and ordinary as any other dream.

Before the poem was finalized and eventually published, the stanza setting the poem in a dream was removed completely. The final draft of the poem makes no mention of a dream at all; the word “dream” does not even appear in the published version of the poem. The decision to remove this stanza from the final version of the poem has a profound effect on the impact the poem has on the reader. The deletion of the stanza in question allows the “wide variety of images” (Orange 1) present in the poem to take hold in the imagination of the reader. Without that particular stanza to indicate that the entire poem was simply a dream, the reader is allowed to retain the feelings of mystery and mysticism “The Hidden Room” evokes. The magic of the poem is not spoiled by any indication that the poem may just be an ordinary dream or a part of a larger series of dreams. The “mystical quality” (Wallenstein and Burr 119) of the poem is enhanced simply by making no mention of the original first stanza.

In the published version of the poem, the final stanza does not specify that the poem is a dream. “Will not know it as prism / a magic square / the number nine” (Page 28-30) indicate the speaker’s fear that the reader will not understand the significance of the “room” and so will not fully appreciate “a secret space” (Page 21) that is highly valued by the speaker. This implies that the “room” is real and solid to some degree and not as flimsy or insubstantial as a dream. Instead, the “room” is something substantial that can be seen by anyone but possibly not recognized as special.

The first stanza of the published version of the poem is also not what Page had originally intended. “I have been coming here since I was born / never at my will / only when it permits me” (Page 1-3) sets the mood of the poem. The reader is immediately exposed to the mysterious and perhaps mystical “it,” though what “it” might be remains unclear until later in the poem. This stanza draws the reader into the poem, almost seducing he or she into reading further to discover what the mystery of the poem will be. The idea that the entire poem is a dream is not likely to enter the reader’s mind. The poem retains its sense of mystery and whimsy.

The final published version of “The Hidden Room” contains “strong visual aspect[s]” (Musgrave 95) that are unspoiled by the implication that the “room” is a dream. As P.K. Page both “witnesses and creates the vision” (Orange 33) of the poem, she makes decisions regarding revisions that greatly affect the overall tone and message of the poem. Page’s decision to remove the “dream” stanza from the final version of the poem allows the majesty of the poem to remain intact for the reader.

Works Cited

Orange, John. P.K. Page and Her Works. Toronto: ECW Press, 1989. Print.

Musgrave, Susan. “The Hidden Room: Collected Poems by P.K. Page.” P.K. Page: Essays on Her Works. Ed. Linda Rogers and Barbara Colebrook Peace. Toronto: Guernica Editions, 2001. 94-8. Print.

Page, P.K. “The Hidden Room.” The Hidden Room: Collected Poems. Vol. 1. Erin: The Porcupine’s Quill, 1997. 11. Print.

Wallenstein, Barry, and Robert Burr. “P.K. Page.” Visions and Revisions: The Poet's Process. Peterborough: Broadview, 2002. 119-35. Print.

Novels Versus Short Stories: It's More Than Just Length

Novels and short stories are similar in many ways. They both tell a story, usually involving characters and plot. They both entertain, engage, or educate the reader. And they are both written by a (hopefully) diligent writer.

But writing a novel is simply not the same as writing a short story, and it's not all about length. I will be the first to admit that many of the differences between novels and short stories are related to length, but it's still worth looking at these differences.

The first difference is in the amount of material that can be presented in a novel. A short story is under 10,000 words. Any longer than that and it should be more accurately termed a novella. With only 10,000 (probably less) words to work with, you have to be selective. You can't have hundreds of characters and twelve different subplots. You simply don't have the room. So, writing short stories means you'll have to learn how to choose what's important to the story itself. Your plot and your characters will be limited. In essence, a short story ask for economy of the writer.

In contrast, novels have really no upper word count. If it's over 80,000 words, it's definitely a novel. But you could write as many as 500,000 words. That's a lot of space to do whatever you like. You can have a thousand characters and multiple plots and an infinite number of subplots as you craft your novel. A novelist can afford to create new problems and obstacles for characters to solve simply because there is room to solve those problems. As long as the core of the story remains intact, and the readers don't lose sight of this core for very long, the novelist is free to move about and create according to whatever whim happens to appear. Not every word in a novel have to mean something. Words can exist in a novel purely because the writer wants the reader to experience them. As long as the readers aren't lost, it works.

Short story writers don't have that luxury. If a short story deviates from its core, even if it's just for 1000 words, it's very hard to recover. Deviations from the core tend to be edited out or survive as a weakness in the story. Short story writers have to economize, so every word has to count. Not a single word in a short story can exist just because the writer wants it there. Each word must serve a purpose.

Which is more difficult? Both have their challenges. Short stories demand economy and novels demand that the writer be in it for the long haul. They are both valid and beautiful art forms. Pick the medium that best fits your story and craft it well.

The Difference Between Fiction and Non-Fiction

I was listening to a couple of academic friends the other day as they had a rather heated discussion. They were talking about the difference between fiction and non-fiction, specifically as it applies to novels. They were trying to define literary fiction and literary non-fiction. At first, I wondered why it mattered, but left them to their discussion (read this: argument).

But the topic stayed with me enough that I got to thinking about it. How do you decide if a novel is fiction or non-fiction? With my own novels, it's easy enough. I write fantasy. I write thing that cannot happen, at least not in our world. But what about novels that take place in the real world full of events that could actually happen? How could you tell by studying the text of the novel if it was fiction or non-fiction?

The answer is simple. You can't. You might be able to make an educated guess, but you could still be wrong. There have been cases that prove this. For example, in the 1980s a writer published a book that he claimed was a slightly edited version of an authentic diary kept by a 19th century Irishman by the name of Gerald Keegan. People accepted this diary as a non-fiction account of Keegan's life. It was studied and used as research by the most respected institutions.

However, it wasn't long before research led to an interesting discovery. The Keegan diary had been published almost a century earlier as a novel, Summer of Sorrow. Many people were fooled into believing that it was a work of non-fiction, accepted it as a work of non-fiction.

So what's the answer, then? Well, I guess that a work is whatever it purports to be, whatever the public accepts it as. Summer of Sorrow was accepted as fiction, claimed to be fiction, and so it was fiction. When it was republished as a diary, it claimed to be non-fiction and was accepted as such. Later, it was again moved back into the realm of fiction.

When determining whether a work is fiction or non-fiction, use this purport test and you'll find the job made much easier. If you care about such things. I read for the pleasure of it, not because a work is either fiction or non-fiction.

The Need for Romance: Love as an Essential Plot Element in Fairy Tales

Love is a common and recurring theme in most fantastical literature. Whether this love exists “between brothers and sisters, fathers and daughters, older women and young maidens, brides and bridegrooms, and suitors and their bachelor friends” (McGlathery ix), romance in fairy tales catches the attention of the reader and moves the plot forward, shaping the events that occur throughout the story. Many times, love serves as an essential plot element in many fairy tales, including “The Golden Bird,” “Goblin Market,” and “Alice Brand.”

“The Golden Bird” is a tale in which the romantic element, platonic though it is, is not immediately apparent from the text itself. It is not until the end of the story, the final paragraph in fact, when the fox asks the prince “to shoot him dead and cut off his head and paws” (Zipes 222) that the fox transforms into the brother of the beautiful princess. This crucial piece of information “would seem to hold the key to the fox’s persistent devotion to his mission” (McGlathery 41). When looking back on the story with this revelation in mind, it becomes quite apparent that the fox’s love for his sister is necessary to the plot. He is determined to see his sister freed, going so far as to aid the prince repeatedly in his quest, despite having his initial advice and warnings ignored. His determination and devotion is entirely the result of his love for his captive sister, and he will go to any lengths to ensure her freedom. This same love brings about a peaceful conclusion for the fox, his sister, and the prince. Without the fox’s desire to rescue his sister from her captors, the prince might not have been successful on his journey and the story may never have happened.

It might be tempting to assume that the fox is only looking for a way to return to human form throughout the story, manipulating the prince into fulfilling his desire and mutilating his body. A close reading of the text, however, does not support this idea. Once the fox returns to human form, “nothing more was missing from their happiness as long as they lived” (Zipes 222). It is quite clear from a detailed examination of the text that the fox wants much more than simply to return to his human form. He desires a reunion with his sister above all else, and he wants this enough to cohabitate with his sister and her husband after he is released from the magical spell that had been cast over him years before. It is likely that he would not have been “content to live with the sister, even after she is married” (McGlathery 164) had he not had a true love for his sister.

The love between sisters is the catalyst for a peaceful resolution in “Goblin Market.” This first hint of this love arises when Lizzie is warning Laura that she “should not peep at goblin men” (Rossetti 49). Her fear for her sister is genuine, even before the conflict of the story becomes apparent. The love for a sister is the cause of this fear. Later in the poem, Lizzie’s love for her sister Laura is strong enough that she is willing to risk her own life by confronting the goblin men and attempting to purchase fruit from them. When the goblin men hold the fruits “against her mouth to make her eat” (Rossetti 407), Lizzie still refuses to comply, even when tormented and even tortured by the goblin men. Her love for Laura is stronger than her fear of the goblin men or the threat of what else they may do to her. Their bond as sisters is essential to the plot of the poem and is the reason Lizzie is so determined to return with the juices of the goblin fruit on her own flesh. Lizzie would be less likely to risk herself in this manner for someone she did not truly love, making love integral to the plot of “Goblin Market.”

The strength of Lizzie’s love goes far beyond simply placing her own life in jeopardy. Lizzie invites Laura to suck the juices from her flesh when she declares, “Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices” (Rossetti 468). Lizzie allows such an intimate action in the hope that it will save her sister. The sucking of the juices does seem sexual in nature but the rest of the poem, though filled with sexual imagery, in no way supports a sexual relationship between the sisters. Instead, Lizzie is offering herself to her sister, not in a sexual way, but as a sacrifice necessary for Laura’s redemption and eventual salvation. Lizzie’s sacrifice is one of love and devotion and is a sacrifice that she does not make lightly. It is this love and devotion that moves the plot forward and results in Laura’s recovery after consuming the goblin fruit.

In “Alice Brand,” the love that exists between Alice and her lover Richard is of a more romantic nature and forms the basis of the story. Richard, after killing Alice’s brother, is forced to live as an outlaw in the forest. Alice, who could blame him for her brother’s death, loves him enough to admit that the fight between Richard and her brother was “but a fatal chance” (Scott 22). Her love leads her to follow him into the forest, leading to the events that take place during the remainder of the poem.

The love Alice and Richard share results in more than simply two lovers spending their lives together in the woods. Alice’s love for Richard allows her to stand against the dwarf Urgan “void of fear” (Scott 65). Her love is strong enough to risk her own life for the sake of her beloved, much as Lizzie risked hers by confronting the goblin men in “Goblin Market.” By taking this very real risk and facing Urgan, the “hideous dwarf” (Scott 59) is finally revealed as her brother Ethert Brand. Because Ethert Brand is not dead, Alice and Richard are able to return to society and eventually marry. Were it not for Alice’s love and devotion to her lover, none of this may have come to pass.

Love and romance often have a powerful role in fairy tales. This love may be platonic, as in the case of “The Golden Bird” and “Goblin Market.” The love in these stories is chaste and non-sexual in nature, but it is also incredibly powerful, as demonstrated by the determination of both the fox and Lizzie. The love in fairy tales may also be of a more romantic and sexual nature, such as in “Alice Brand” where the bond between lovers and their dedication to each other propels the story forward. Regardless of the type of love found in any particular fairy tale, romance is often pivotal to the plot, shaping the story and controlling the final resolution while exploring human emotion. These tales of love and romance stand “as a welcome vehicle for depicting this realm of human emotional experience” (McGlathery 197).

Works Cited

McGlathery, James M. Fairy Tale Romance: The Grimms, Basile, and Perrault. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991. Print.

Rossetti, Christina. “Goblin Market.” Representative Poetry Online. Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries, 2009. Web. 2 May 2011.

Scott, Walter. “Alice Brand.” The British Literary Ballad Archive. LiteraryBalladArchive.com, 2008. Web. 2 May 2011.

Zipes, Jack. “The Golden Bird.” The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm. New York: Bantam Books, 1992. 216-222. Print.

Literature and Politics: The Beauty of Non-Engagement

Politics and political reality have a way of entwining themselves with every facet of our lives, including our literature. Some authors will write directly about political trends or current events. Others are more subtle, preferring to take an approach that lends itself to political non-engagement. While some may see this as socially irresponsible, the reverse is in fact true. Non-engagement is the more socially responsible approach to producing great literature.

When a piece of literature addresses a specific event, trend or political reality, it is immediately relevant. This “engaged” literature, whether poetry or prose, may be temporarily popular because it speaks to the events of the moment. Once the moment has passed, the relevancy is lost, and an otherwise beautiful piece of literature may fade into obscurity. When Stan Apps probes the nature and validity of war, challenging the reader to understand that “war is the way you have been thinking” (Apps line 9), it seems relevant and even poignant. However, in another time, one not plagued by controversial wars, religious intolerance, and a politically charged atmosphere, the reader may lose his or her ability to connect on a deeper level with the poem. While “VI” will always remain a beautiful piece of literature, it may eventually lose its relevancy by speaking too closely to the era in which it was written.

On the other hand, literature that does not engage with a specific political reality has the benefit of relating to many different political trends and events. Kafka’s The Castle, for example, describes a world disconnected with any specific political reality. The town has no name, the castle itself is ambiguous at best, and only a single initial represents the principle character. He does not even have a true identity. Yet, when reading The Castle, it is possible to connect it to a variety of different political or bureaucratic situations that have occurred throughout the twentieth century and beyond. The Castle could be read as expressing the irony of bureaucracy, both as it is now and as it existed in previous eras. It might also be seen “as a critique of industrial society, of exploitation, alienation, bourgeois morality – of capitalism, in a word” (Kundera 106). Kafka, simply by creating a story that is the very embodiment of political non-engagement, has produced a literary work that can apply to all political realities. A work that does not attempt to address a particular event or trend is open to interpretation, and as such can relate to almost any situation. In Kafka’s case, non-engagement has fashioned a piece of literature with an enduring and timeless quality that many engaged works simply do not possess.

Creating a literary work that does not engage with political trends is not the same thing as ignoring political reality. Instead, literature is at its best when not engaged with current events or trends, especially in a political sense. The beauty of non-engagement is that it allows the reader to relate to the text regardless of the current political climate. The Castle, which is arguably one of the best examples of literature that is non-engaged from political reality, has emergent themes that enable the reader to apply it to any era. The reader can come to his or her own conclusion regarding the overall issue of the work, and therefore has more value in the particular piece of literature than the author has. The author of such a work is taking a backseat and allowing the reader to engage with the current political reality by not engaging during the process of writing. This makes literary work that exhibits non-engagement even more socially responsible than engagement. By creating a piece of literature that is applicable in any era and can be interpreted to apply to many different social-political situations, the writer is acknowledging political reality and being politically responsible.

This is not to say that a writer has any political responsibility. Writers can write for a variety of reasons. Writing political stories or poems is a choice, as is the decision to engage or not engage with political trends. However, if a writer chooses to remain non-engaged from a specific political reality, he or she has the unique opportunity to create a piece of literature that is relevant in all times and speaks to many different events and trends. In this way, non-engagement is the more socially responsible way to engage the reader in both the language of the piece and the issues it can address.

Works Cited

Apps, Stan. “VI.” God’s Livestock Policy. Los Angeles: Les Figues Press, 2008.

Kafka, Franz. The Castle. Ed. Mark Harman. New York: Schocken Books, 1988.

Kundera, Milan. “Somewhere Behind.” The Art of the Novel. New York: Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2003.