Back to the Classics: Comparative Analysis of Social Criticism in The Great Gatsby and The Awakening

Welcome back to your sporadic dose of literary geekiness.

Today I lovingly compare and contrast social criticism found in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and Kate Chopin's The Awakening, two very different and yet very similar texts.

I'll refrain from posting this anywhere else since it isn't an actual review—closer to one of my lit essays for class, actually—but enjoy regardless!

Both The Great Gatsby and The Awakening are classic examples of acute social criticism of their respective American time periods—the former, of the socioeconomics of the Roaring Twenties in the Long Island region, and the latter, of the repression of women around the time of Queen Victoria's rule in the southeast. Both texts possess similar features, including tragic endings and unique portrayals of death, but in their story lines, each literary motives shines a different light. The two also differ in technique; whereas F. Scott Fitzgerald's diction and style is what best reflects his setting and criticism of the upper class, Kate Chopin demonstrates strength in her characterization—particularly of Edna Pontellier, and in comparing her to other women of her society—in order to emphasize her main social criticism of gender inequality.

I will begin with the endings, because both story endings are highly tragic and highly impactful for the understanding and analysis of each novel. The similarity between them is, of course, death of the main characters; both shocking plot twists change the directions in which each plot routed before, although in different manners and for different purposes. In The Great Gatsby, the deaths of Jay, Mr. Wilson, and Myrtle Wilson all serve to relay how the upperclass will always get their way—how money is power, and money is everything, including the right to live. This lingering after-note, while not unforeseen, is almost a 180º-turn from where the plot was headed previously: towards redemption, the pursuit of true, soul-searing love, and the American Dream. Similarly in The Awakening, Edna's suicide, while predicted, is completely shocking and disruptive for the linear flow of the novel. Before, readers were led into being absorbed into Edna's figurative and literal awakening—her sexual and spiritual freedom and escape from the suffocating cage that was society. However, that same restraint is what pushes her into killing herself; the tragic irony is that by being freed, she must sacrifice her life, which in and of itself, supports the notion that such release from society's tight clutches is wholly improper, and in the in the end, devastatingly impossible. This can be compared to the sudden inversion of The Great Gatsby's plot, as well; the death of Gatsby—as well as the failure to properly honor him as a martyr upon his passing—that strikes the entire "American Dream" motivation down completely, parallels the transposition of The Awakening's plot.

More specifically, death is portrayed in two different ways and for two different reasons within these books. Though brief and only prominent in the closing chapters of each book, death as a theme plays a significant role in both novels. In The Great Gatsby, the deaths of Gatsby and the Wilsons represents the injustice of the American socioeconomic class system. The lack of responsibility on the Buchanans' parts when Daisy commits vehicular manslaughter emphasizes the utter absence of morality within the upper class during the 1920s. Fitzgerald, having directly experienced and fallen victim to this ludicrous—and more critically, lethal—social hierarchy himself, describes this helpless frustration through the dishonorable death of Jay Gatsby. Death is viewed as the result of Daisy and Tom's very aware but very evasive escape from blame of Myrtle Wilson's hit-and-run—the kind of reckless behavior only possessed by the rich elite of the Roaring Twenties, as they were the only ones in society who could afford to do so. More than anything, death is an "accident," a sad but mere misfortune upon any outsider—any non-elite nouveau riche or West Egger as Jay Gatsby was—who happens to get in the way. However, in The Awakening, death is portrayed in a different manner. Death, as previously explained is freedom, the only way out of Edna's social oppression and gender expectations. Unlike Gatsby's careless death that was practically disregarded—shrugged off, because "well, as long as it isn't us!"—Edna's is carefully considered and entirely deliberate. While in general, suicide is thought of as the most dishonorable way to die, Edna's death is an exception because of her intentions and her final realization that she will never, ever escape society. She can escape her suffocating husband, Leoncé—and she did—but she has other outside expectations to fulfill, such as her role as a mother and, if she carries out her desire to be with Robert, her continual role as an oppressed housewife. Once Edna realizes that escaping Leoncé is a futile effort, as it would just be running straight into Robert—her lover's—equally possessive and restrictive arms, she decides there would be no other purpose for her in the exact same degrading position as a woman; and so she drowns herself. However, her act is not all selfish; she considers her sons, the biggest factor still grounding her to society's unspoken legislations. Making her death seem like an accident (as she pretends just to go for a swim, with clear intentions of "returning") saves her sons from the downfall in reputation that a known suicide or the controversy surrounding a mother who runs off with another man, would bring. Because she saves her sons' lives from being destroyed, Edna adheres to the social norm in a certain respect which, in turn, makes Chopin's criticism of female oppression during the Victorian era even louder and certainly stronger.

The socioeconomic and feminist views in The Great Gatsby and The Awakening respectively are supported through both authors' utilizations of a table-turning ending (in terms of thematic direction) and portrayals of death. Both authors successfully examine and eventually bring to light, the deep flaws of their respective societies, as well as the tragedies that result from them, and unless altered, always will.

Back to the Classics: A Great American Character Analysis... Is Gatsby Indeed Great?

With the new Baz Luhrmann movie sweeping the globe, original novel topping bestseller charts, and fandoms exploding over the internet, I was inspired to share my two cents on the title character’s so-called “greatness,” inspired by a lecture on The Great Gatsby from my comparative lit class last year. Fitzgerald is infamous for his social criticism of the Roaring Twenties, and even within solely the title of his book—which I don’t think could be any more obviously satirical—his opinions of the rich and the famous—the young and the beautiful—ring perfectly clear.

I won't post this to other book sites as it isn't an official "review" but I hope you enjoy regardless.

F. Scott Fitzgerald's characterization of Jay Gatsby demonstrates the extent to which Gatsby transcends his own lowly roots and creates the impression of being "great." Throughout the procession of the 1925 novel, The Great Gatsby, readers are exposed to Gatsby's various amazing achievements, including his ascent into excessive wealth and reputation, his long-standing and eventually successful pursuit of Daisy Buchanan, and his tragic, galvanized death. However, as with the Great Houdini, Fitzgerald's "Great" Gatsby emerges from a logical and almost karmic reality through the exposure of his ill-explained fortune and questionable social status, his fleeting and doomed-from-the-start relationship with Daisy, and his unmemorable passing; this is what shatters the glimmering illusion and ultimately conveys that Jay Gatsby, contrary to the book's title, is not great after all.

The diction that describes Gatsby's mannerisms and appearance is, from the beginning of the novel, rich and opulent, paralleling his lavish, garish position in society. His wealth is never cloaked; from the mansion, to the weekly parties, to the countless dress shirts and expensive cars, it is evident that Gatsby is rich as sin and is initially, through his inclusion in the nouveau riche, the epitome of the American dream. He's handsome, he's rich, he's socially reputable... or so readers think. As the plot unravels, Fitzgerald exposes Gatsby's obscure roots, including his partygoers' assumptions that he killed a man or is actually a German spy from the Third Reich, and the fact that he can never get the story regarding how he climbed to prosperity, straight. His rather indeterminate and shady manner of "business" with Meyer Wolfsheim and inability to explicitly explain, even to Nick, what trade he is in, demonstrates that his crisp, rich image is not what he says it is. The haze of the glorification of money hides this suspicious background, which is why Gatsby is so great in the beginning of the book, but falls utterly hard by the end.

From Daisy's point of view, reuniting with Gatsby is miserable not only because of the unextinguished flame between the two past lovers, but also because Gatsby now has in his grasp, the upperclass lifestyle she so needs, yet she is not with him. This is the mindset that prevails when Gatsby first appears in the story. Now that he is rich, he deserves Daisy, the woman he has never stopped pursuing. His love for Daisy runs deeply and unfalteringly, and when he sees her again for the first time in five years, is even rekindled. The notion that after all the time and trouble, he finally gets the girl is stunning to readers because such a long, grueling pursuit being fulfilled is an amazing feat; Gatsby is extraordinary for having defeated unsurmountable odds for the woman he loves. However, as with his money, by the novel's end, his relationship with Daisy, too, fails. In the confrontational scene between Gatsby, Tom, and Daisy (with Jordan and Nick as spectators), Gatsby demands Daisy admit that she never loved Tom; but she cannot. Distraught with emotion, Daisy, exclaims to him, "I did love [Tom] once—but I loved you too," which does not suffice for Gatsby. Gatsby wants Daisy's whole love, her unadulterated and exclusive love, but is jarred by the startling reality that due to the passage of time, and the cruelty of fate, Daisy loved Tom when she could not love Gatsby. Gatsby's pursuit of her, of the past, is now a void because something has happened that he cannot—and will never be able to—control: Daisy and Tom's marriage. Thus, the illusion of Gatsby's successful, extraordinary possession of true love is also broken, and a harsher truth that "even alone [Daisy] can't say [she] never loved Tom," revealed. Gatsby may have seemed great for getting Daisy back, but the clutch was only fleeting, and it certainly wasn't for keeps; this ultimately marks his failure to possess her for good and to surface with romantic success.

Lastly, Gatsby's final proceeding shows his downfall. Dying young, he should be immortalized, or at least revered for dying for love, for dying a tragic, hopeless death. Gatsby's murder should idealize and romanticize the consequences of stubborn love, but it instead has the exact opposite effect: it goes unremembered. Given his social and financial prowess, he should have died a martyr, or at least have been eulogized, but no one—exactly no one—even bothers to attend his funeral. Gatsby's unremarkable death is Fitzgerald's last reminder to readers that although Gatsby had his great moments, they eventually led to his demise, and that as a whole, he is far, far from great.

The tragedy of Gatsby having everything, then suddenly nothing, demonstrates his irrefutable distance from greatness. He may have been rich, temporarily romantically successful, and have died young, but simultaneously, the money lacked virtue and acceptable regard, his love was rendered futile by the past which he could not change nor hold sway over, and his death was disappointingly unremarkable. Like Harry Houdini, Gatsby was a compelling—and daresay effective—illusionist, but that is all he amounted to be: an illusionist. His final fate—his fall from greatness—reveals everything we wanted to, but could never be.

This piece originally appeared in The Huffington Post.