Why Grown-Ups Should (Re)Read Classics

After spending two tutoring sessions helping a rising 11th grader read and interpret The Great Gatsby, I decided to actually open the book on my own for the first time since I was a high school student myself. As I carried the book home from the library, memories of my first encounter with Gatsby flooded back to me. This is why I love literature. One story can conjure up the most vivid of memories even when other details which should have been more important have faded into oblivion.

The year I read The Great Gatsby was the year I had Mrs. Caffier (caf-ee-ay) for 10th grade English. Mrs. Caffier, who among other similarly bold outfits, proudly wore a skirt which depicted an entire farmscape--from bright red barn to rolling green hills complete with barnyard animals. Mrs. Caffier, who had an uncanny ability to never repeat an outfit. (I hope this is the only reason she ever wore that farm skirt.) Mrs. Caffier, who forewarned us that after she underwent nose surgery, she might return to class with a tampon sticking out of her nose. Mrs. Caffier, who cautioned us to never rely on spell check, recalling the time she had been listed in a school play program as a teacher of "pubic speaking." Mrs. Caffier, who assigned me The Great Gatsby and, regardless of all the study guide questions and projects she also distributed, left me with two enduring memories of the book: a blinking green light of colossal significance and a billboard with huge eye glasses, clearly a symbol of God.

Needless to say, when I reunited with the novel as a 28-year-old, I did so in a much different manner than when I was first introduced to it at the age of 15. (For starters, I was not distracted by a middle-aged woman in a farm skirt.)

As an adult reader of Gatsby, I found myself pausing and lingering over sentences, which I can't imagine had any impact on me as a teenager. I read and re-read one sentence in particular, in which the narrator summarizes Gatsby's disillusionment with the woman he has idolized for years:


"There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams--not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion."

Colossal vitality of his illusion. How I reacted to those words as a teen I can't recall. Most likely, they confused me, as they did my poor tutee, so I ignored them. However, as an adult, I read these words and recalled the people whom I have admired, even idolized at times, who were later revealed to be severely flawed-which only means they're human. Reflections such as these require lived experience and can hardly be realized by a person who can't yet drive a car or stay out past ten.

Another aspect of Gatsby which I could not appreciate as a teenager is Fitzgerald's luxurious, yet poingant language. His ability to not only depict images of opulence but to use words that convey the transience of that wealth:

"The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath..."

Words like these were so new to me as a teenager that I could barely fathom their meanings.  Reading them again has given me a new appreciation for Fitzgerald's eloquent precision with language.

So, I invite you to dust off a copy of a book you were forced to read as a student. One you loved or one you hardly remember. Embrace the memories it conjures up and the new perspectives you're able to bring to the story.