I HAVE READ The Great Gatsby more times than any other novel. With each reading, my understanding of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s greatest work deepens, and I pick up something I missed previously. My first time was in high school, when our English class discussed the symbolism of the green light and the eyes on the billboard and the silk shirts in the vast closet. In college, I was drawn to Gatsby as tragic romantic and giver of epic parties of the kind I wanted to throw. After I moved to New York, I read the book again and finally understood its geography.

Subsequent readings have been slower, more careful. I parse the words—there are not many in this masterpiece of economy—and delve into the text in a way I was not capable of as a teenager. I’m reading like a writer, in Francine Prose’s phrase. As an adjunct professor, I always include the novel on my syllabus. My Gatsby lecture was a high point of my three semesters as an adjunct.

My reading of the book starts with this premise: Nick Carraway, and not the more dashing eponymous character, is the protagonist of the novel. This is not a hard case to make. It could be argued that the narrator of every first-person novel is the protagonist, even if the book is “about” someone else. Nick is the only character who “changes,” in the way they used to teach in high school, and anyway Gatsby is absent for many of the book’s scenes, including the drawn-out ending (which slow fade, incidentally, will forever doom attempts at cinematic treatment; sorry, Baz).

My other premise is less obvious, but no more difficult to argue: Nick is a) gay and b) in love with Gatsby.

My copy.

Here’s what we know about Nick Carraway, from what he tells us in the first few pages of the book: he was born in 1896, so is about the same age as Fitzgerald; he went to Yale, as his father did before him; he fought in the First World War; he resembles his “hard-boiled” great uncle; his aunts and uncles are worried about him; he is, at age 25-26—his birthday is the summer solstice, and occurs during the action of the book—still single. Reading between the lines, we deduce that there is something unusual about him, something that concerns his family. So far, Nick’s is exactly the profile of a (closeted) gay young man in a prominent Middle Western family in 1922.

From here, we look to Nick’s impressions of the various characters—characters that, for many readers, are indelibly rendered.

Daisy Buchanan is the Southern belle with whom Gatsby is so desperately in love that he joins the underworld, amasses a small fortune, and ultimately ruins his life. It is safe to assume that a man as shallow as Gatsby would not be drawn to someone unattractive. There’s a reason Daisy has been played in the movies by fair beauties like Mia Farrow and Carey Mulligan. Yet here is how Nick, a distant enough cousin to lust for her with impunity if he had such impulses, describes her:

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.

Essentially, Daisy, this legendary beauty, this great love of Gatsby’s life…had a nice voice. A voice they later realize sounds like money. (Note that “men who had cared for her” does not imply that Nick was among them.)

Next up, the golfer Jordan Baker. Nick’s take:

I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, disconcerted face.

We can easily imagine Jordan, a prototype of the modern-day female athlete: sporty, fit, trim, and a bit flirty. Even reading this in high school I came away thinking that she was hot. But Nick doesn’t think so, any more than Humbert Humbert finds Charlotte Haze attractive, although the descriptions of Lolita’s mother suggest that in “real” life, the opposite is true. Also: other than the word small-breasted—which de-emphasizes the golfer’s feminine attributes—this could be a description of a man.

Nick spends a lot of time with Jordan during the summer when the story takes place—enough so that she is under the impression that he “threw her over.” But we never hear about this. Jordan Baker does not interest him. He is dating her to try and convince himself that he is attracted to her, this boyish woman, but he is not.

Then Myrtle, who we can also assume, because a wealthy and athletic man like Tom Buchanan could probably have his pick of available women, is easy on the eyes:

She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty, but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering.

To Tom, Myrtle is the smouldering portrait of voluptuousness, but Nick is not taken with her at all. Granted, he might not be inclined to like his cousin’s husband’s lover, but I find it curious that he’s so sure her dress is made of crêpe-de-chine.

Compare the way the women are rendered with this description of Tom Buchanan, someone Nick does not particularly care for:

He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding boots could hide the enormous power of that body — he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body.

Daisy is about the voice, Jordan the erect carriage, Myrtle the crêpe-de-chine. Only Tom is given such raw carnality. If you didn’t know you were reading Fitzgerald, you might think that this decidedly erotic description was lifted from Shoshanna EversEnslaved trilogy. I mean, this passage is racy.

The bodice-ripping language goes into overdrive when Nick meets his wealthy neighbor Mr. Gatsby for the first time:

He smiled understandingly — much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you might come across four or five times in your life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.

Again, if you came across that passage out of context, you would probably conclude it was from a romance novel. If that scene were a cartoon, Cupid would shoot an arrow, music would swell, and Nick’s eyes would turn into giant hearts.

What’s that you say? This is all semantics, a matter of language, and you need action to prove that Nick prefers men? Fine, we’ll skip to the part where he hooks up with Mr. McKee.

This would be the end of chapter two, before he meets, and falls instantly in love with, Gatsby. He is in Manhattan with Tom, who wanted Nick to meet “his girl,” Myrtle. They are at Myrtle’s apartment with her sister Catherine (“Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle,” we are told, “but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face.”) and some neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. McKee—the former being “a pale, feminine man.” They spend the afternoon together and drink into the night—it is, Nick says, one of the few times in his life he has drunk to excess. There are two couples plus Nick and Catherine, and that arrangement suggests that she is who he should wind up with, but at the end of the night, after Tom breaks Myrtle’s nose, here’s what goes down:

Mr. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. When he had gone halfway he turned around and stared at the scene—his wife and Catherine scolding and consoling as they stumbled here and there among the crowded furniture with articles of aid….Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier, I followed.
“Come to lunch someday,” he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator.
“Keep your hands off the lever,” snapped the elevator boy.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. McKee with dignity, “I didn’t know I was touching it.”
“All right,” I agreed, “I’ll be glad to.”

Then the strange ellipses—the only time in the book Fitzgerald uses them—suggesting action that we’re not privy to. And I do mean action.

. . . I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.
“Beauty and the Beast…Loneliness…Old Grocery House…Brook’n Bridge….”
Then I was lying half asleep in the cold lower level of the Pennsylvania Station, staring at the morning Tribune, and waiting for the four o’clock train.

The Great Gatsby is often praised, and rightly so, for its economy. So much is packed into this slender volume—not much more than 50,000 words, practically a novella. Why would Fitzgerald bother to include this strange interlude, a loopy Nick in bed with the “feminine” Mr. McKee in his underwear at 3 in the morning, if not to show the narrator’s sexual preference? What other purpose can it possibly serve? That Nick is interested in photography?

The Great Cover.

The last time I gave my Gatsby lecture, one of my students sagely asked, “So what? What difference does it make if Nick is gay?” I said something about how it’s important to know about the sexuality of the characters if we’re to really understand them. In truth, I was so pleased with myself for developing my theory that the notion had not occurred to me. But this is an important question.

First, it’s a testament to Fitzgerald’s talent as a novelist (or Maxwell Perkins’s talent as an editor, if you hold, as I might be inclined to, that Perkins had much more to do with Gatsby than did the drunken F. Scott) that he was able to provide so much textual evidence that Nick is gay without confirming it or drawing undue attention to it. Subtlety is an art.

More important is how Nick’s sexuality affects what we are reading. Gatsby is, after all, an account written by him in Minnesota the year after the events in the book. We see only what Nick lets us see, and our perception of the events and the characters are colored by his biases. If Nick is in love with Gatsby—and this seems pretty clear—then the entire novel operates as a rationalization of that misplaced love. Nick romanticizes Gatsby in the exact same way that Gatsby romanticizes Daisy.

Speaking of Daisy: One of the more interesting aspects of this novel is that Mrs. Tom Buchanan, for whom Gatsby has moved proverbial mountains, is unworthy of his obsession. Daisy is a piece of shit—one of the biggest pieces of shit in all of literature. As a young woman, she is in love with Gatsby, but when he ships out, caves almost immediately under pressure from her family and marries Tom, whose hateful and racist rants she permits. She has no job, no discernible skill (unlike her BFF the professional athlete), and her life is one of complete leisure. She is a lousy mother—her daughter, raised by a nanny, makes a cameo appearance but does not factor into any of her decisions. As soon as Gatsby reveals his ardor, she goes off with him, betraying her husband. And it is Daisy who runs down Myrtle Wilson, and then compounds the sin by driving away from the scene. Whatever dollar-pegged gaiety might exist in her voice, we can’t hear it, her voice is filtered through Nick’s; all we know is that she is a horrible human being.

Nick wants us to believe, as he does, that Gatsby is different, that “only…the man who gives his name to his book, was exempt from [his] reaction” of scorn because of Jay’s “extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such that I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.” Translation: “I loved this man.” Unlike the Buchanans, “Gatsby turned out all right at the end….”

But when we look at the facts about Gatsby, we see that he and Daisy have more in common than Nick would like to believe. In order to woo her, he changes his name, abandons his family, and turns to a life of crime. He takes up with a smuggler, and then goes to work for Meyer Wolfsheim—the man who rigged the 1919 World Series; in real life, the mobster Arnold Rothstein—and runs liquor. He amasses a fortune. He uses that fortune to throw lavish parties, in the manner of the nouveau riche, in the vain hope that they will register on Daisy’s radar. When this does not work, he befriends, with cold calculation, Daisy’s cousin and uses him to arrange a meeting. He thinks nothing of the fact that she is married, or that she has a child. And although Daisy drove the death car, Gatsby orchestrates her escape—he’s willing to take the blame for the crime, to sacrifice himself for her, but cares not a whit about the woman Daisy killed. Finally, when he dies in his useless swimming pool, no one comes to the funeral, which, irony and symbolism aside, speaks volumes about how well-liked he really was.

Nick runs into Tom one last time before he leaves New York. This is at the very end of the novel. Of the late Gatsby, Tom says, “That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust in your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s….” And that’s why it matters that Nick is gay and in love with Gatsby: because Tom’s assessment is spot-on, but Nick will never admit it. Instead, he’ll write a whole book denying the truth. Nick Carraway, failed bond trader, unreliable narrator, believer in the green light, who knows that gay, exciting things are no longer hovering in the next hour, and never will again.


About Greg Olear

Greg Olear (@gregolear) is a founding editor of The Weeklings and the author of the novels Totally Killer and Fathermucker, an L.A. Times bestseller.
This entry was posted in Appreciations, Literature and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

27 Responses to GA(tsb)Y

  1. Well, I’ve made up my mind— I will definitely get around to re-reading Gatsby. Or maybe I’ll just wait for the film, which I know will be great because they have Jay-Z doing the score and several mis-cast actors.

    I’ve only read Gatsby once, when I was at my first university. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t particularly like it— certainly it is beautifully written, but there isn’t a single likeable character in the book. I’m interested in reading it again, because your theory immediately makes Nick a little more sympathetic and interesting.

    I’m sure you’re right. Oscar Wilde’s comments on the characters in The Picture of Dorian Grey come to mind— he said that “Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be- in other ages, perhaps.” That is to say that Gatsby could be taken as a reflection of the way Fitzgerlad either wanted to be perceived or thought he was perceived, and Nick as a more honest self-portrait.

    To answer your student’s question of why it matters whether Nick is gay or not, it is more than just the way it changes our reading. Fitzgerald is a master of sublety, only hinting at the sexuality of Nick Carraway. But could he not also be hinting at his own? If Nick is gay, it changes what the book tells us about Fitzgerlad— and Gatsby probably tells us more than most. I think it’s very interesting that many of the characters either disguise their true nature, or alter their personalities in some way. It is not just a book about class or the jazz age or the American dream, but Fitzgerald exploring themes of uncertainty and identity.

    The fact he kept changing the title, and in fact tried to change it when it was too late hints at Fitzgerald’s uncertain nature. Nick Carraway’s sexuality alters— if not outright changes— the subtext of the novel.

    Then again I nearly failed my critical reading modules at university, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about…

    • Greg says:

      I don’t really discuss this in the piece, but I wonder how much input Zelda and Max Perkins had on GG. FSF’s first book was decent, and then Tender is the Night is a mess of epic proportions. Only GG is this good.

      There are times when I read a book as a window into the author, and, while there are certainly autobiographical elements to the novel, I’m not convinced the Nick sexuality is one of them. I’m almost tempted to believe FSG didn’t even realize it was there, but who knows?

  2. Jess Marsico says:

    I love critical readings! I, too, have seen the homoerotic tone of the book. Something else of interest, to me, is how Nick describes Gatsby; it’s not only Nick’s closeted gay perception, though, because even a man with homosexual tendencies can only describe a scene to a particular point. In fact, Gatsby himself represents something other than heterosexuality.
    With Nick as narrator, we learn that Gatsby’s wardrobe is full of pieces in colors of lavender, pink, and patterned shirts in coral, apple green, faint orange (Ch 5). On top of that, Nick mentions Gatsby’s pink suit three times, once saying, “I could think of nothing but the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon” (150; Ch 7).
    Even further, Gatsby’s house is decorated, as described by Nick, with “Marie Antoinette music rooms…swathed in rose and lavender silk…” (96; Ch 5).
    Plus, Gatsby dates Jordan: a totally androgenous name for a woman with the body of a man!

    • Greg says:

      Interesting point, Jess. I always assumed Gatsby’s outlandish clothes were meant to draw attention to himself, and thus have Daisy notice him, but now that you mention it…

      Thanks for reading and commenting!

  3. Matthew Norman says:

    This is just great, and it makes a wonderful case. I’m going to link to this piece on my blog. My hope is that people miss your name and mistakenly assume that I wrote it.

  4. Don Druker says:

    I’m sure you’re aware that this theory was played for raunchy comedy in the 1970 film Getting Straight, starring Elliott Gould and Candice Bergen, in which Gould, as graduate student Harry Bailey (I assume this is a reference to It’s a Wonderful Life) freaks out during his orals when a deranged professor launches into a shrieking explication of, essentially, your argument, and Bailey completely loses it, dancing obscenely on the table, and planting a kiss on the lips of his interrogator.

    • Greg says:

      I didn’t think I was the first person to come up with it — it’s too obvious — but I’ve neither seen nor heard of that movie. I do recall, however, a scene in “Cheers” where Ted is reading “The Sun Also Rises” in the tub, and realizes Jake is missing his you-know-what, and drops the book into the tub, and it’s a rare first edition, and Diane gets mad at him.

      Thanks for reading.

  5. Fabulous piece, Greg, loved it :) And thanks for the awesome shout out – it made my day! :)

  6. Has anyone ever told you that you’re a really smart fella?

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  8. Lynn says:

    I too have reread GG several times over the past 40 years- it is my favorite novel. From the first reading I was struck by the detached nature of Nick’s comments about the end of his romance with a girl in his home state, a relationship which he called off and which had seemingly been viewed by others, including the girl, as on a track to marriage. My impression was that the relationship had ALWAYS been emotionally uninvolving for him, and from that I viewed Nick as a cold fish – possibly even incapable of love. For me that explained his selection of the equally detached Jordan as an acceptable female companion for the summer. (Jordan is ultimately surprised and disappointed that Nick turns out to be just as cold in these matters as she is, depriving her of the control she counts on.) As for his obvious fondness for Gatsby – I guess I think of Nick as a bit dissatisfied with his own social/economic class, which includes Tom, Daisy, and Jordan, and he is intrigued by a man who in boyhood started with so little, and sacrificed – abandoning his family – disciplining himself in every aspect – possibly even prostituting himself to his early mentor/companion, the millionaire yacht owner – to focus on the singular goal of attaining what Nick was born into. So to me their friendship was what we now identify in popular culture as a bromance. Having said all of the above, your take on it makes perfect sense. The question for me now is whether it was intentional or unintentional on Fitzgerald’s part. And just for the record – I have always considered Nick to be the protagonist. Thank you for putting it in writing.

    • Greg says:

      I like that idea, too — that he didn’t even intend for it to be read this way. But the text is the text, and unlike constitutional law, the intention of the author is really moot.

      Thanks for reading and writing such a thoughtful response.

  9. Gatsby is a muffled summer dream of universal gender dysphoria. Jordan is obviously gay and has played with Daisy. Which Tom hates. About Nick you are supposed to wonder — he’s about not trying to pretend he’s Hemingway. Nick is Gatsby’s Horatio and steals the show somehow. His witness is not the frame, but the event itself, somewhat histrionic and unachieved. Was Scott’s least successful book until 150,000 paper copies were distributed to G.I.s. (How the hell was that arranged?) It’s really a teenage crush book and a novella if anything is (who calls it an anecdote?), about pretty people who have nothing to do but run around and drink. I’m always amazed that it rises to the top of so many lists. I guess it’s well done.

    • Greg says:

      If sales had any relationship at all to literary quality, we’d be analyzing the work of E.L. James. MOBY DICK sold something like 250 copies in the first printing until it was reissued later — that doesn’t make it less of a masterpiece.

      Thanks for reading and commenting!

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  11. EnglishTeacher says:

    Your premise is definitely interesting — I teach it to my 11th graders, and I’ll have them read this as one piece of criticism they can agree/disagree with — but for all your teaching/re-reading of the book, you have a glaring error: Nick is not, as you say, “age 25-26”. He turns 30 in the grand climactic Chapter 7; he even has a quite depressing paragraph dedicated to the changes that will now occur in his life. I’m also curious that you leave out all the details Nick drops about his possible ex-girlfriend/fiancee back home, as well as the other girl he dates in NY; my students are often convinced that these are “red herrings” in which Nick attempts to convince the reader he’s straight, or proof of his confused identity/sexuality.

    So this English teacher gives you a B+ — great analysis of your evidence, but missing some key things. :)

    • The Editors says:

      I also got the date of his birthday wrong. And it did occur to me to mention his (alleged) other girlfriends, but that would open up a whole side discussion of sexuality and what it means to be gay, and the piece was already running long.

      My own English teacher wrote me saying he liked the essay, and he was a tough grader…although as a student, I almost always got a B+.

      Thanks for reading, and sharing.


  12. Peter Jones says:

    Your essay is a great read. I wonder though if the “gay” hints weren’t actually asexual hints. In many ways, Scott is both Nick and Jay.

    Scott was a dreamer, an observer, a poet, a hypochondriac, a man limited in action by his fears, which is Nick. Scott had to earn back, with riches, Zelda, who spurned him, just as Jay and had to find riches to win Daisy. Scott made Jay the man he regretted not being himself: adventurous, intriguing, a hero with medals to prove it.

    The question might be, did Zelda notice that Daisy wasn’t worth it?

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