proust challenge: day four

Question Four: What book makes you want to live in a different era?

Just crucify me now. A humbling reminder that the point of the Proust Project (wait, why didn’t I call it that…?) is to trick myself into writing, not entertain the masses. Reluctant to even post this one on social media so if you’re still reading… well, thanks I guess.

Here’s the issue: I want to be different and it feels sad. I even searched “books in different eras” but I still don’t think anything beats a Sweet Sixteen overlooking the Long Island Sound complete with cocktail hour and a jazz band. I’m sorry but I just can’t get any further down the line than Gatsby.

Sue me. I find it enchanting.  I mean, look at this little baby brat.

I feel apologetic for being basic - which I hate. I’m not apologizing to you. But I guess I am sort of apologizing to myself. And to all the other books out there left unread. I’ve read Gatsby like, sixteen times. I’ve read books about Gatsby. Did you know that Daisy and Gatsby’s re-meet cute at Nick’s house falls in the exact middle of the book? Like !!!!!!!!!

Goddamnit. I want this to be something else, somewhere, sometime when women had just a wee bit more autonomy. But then my devil brain goes, hey, you just got the right to vote and you can show your knees and shoulders in fun, sparkly dresses so… seems pretty lit to me. I certainly wouldn’t want to live any time beforehand. Talk about restrictive. And definitely not in the future post-whenever it is that I and/or the planet decide to die. So that leaves the century in between. Let’s weigh some options.

Not the 30s - depression.
40s - war. No.
50s- be a mom or be scorned. No.
60s- maybe I’d go the Fear and Loathing route? I’d get tired though. I need a home.
70s- could never get behind disco.
80s- possible, but also the threat of nuclear war, so no.
90s- tell me a good book and I’ll read it. 

Now, imagine being a 1920s showgirl.

Not a hooker. But a good ol’ fashioned Ziegfeld follies Fanny Brice, Gilda Gray type. You get New York in all its Prohibition glory. You have an independent job and enough money to get by. You’re surrounded by artist types who likely have more money to party - and you get to join because you’re pretty and maybe a little famous? Um, hello? That’s the dream. Nighttime performance. Applause applause applause. Then out to your fave speakeasy in your fave dress with your fave gals. People love you. You dance forever. You stay out too late on another’s dime. You wake up too late but it’s okay because call time for the show isn’t till 6pm. And the cycle continues. Rinse. Repeat. The Life. I’m sure I’m missing some pitfalls. But this is a biased blog post, not a history lesson.

Then there’s the fact of money. You’ve got to have some to truly enjoy yourself. No shit. But of course, this is exactly what first grabbed young Maggie by the throat though I couldn’t articulate it at the time. The way these people deal with money! They don’t even know! I could quote Nick here (I won’t) about Tom and Daisy being so careless because they’ve never known the definition of the word consequence. They just pack up and sail first class to Europe after killing a woman in a hit and run! Whatever!

Utter hedonism - the money, the liquor, the sex - in the name of the pursuit of pleasure. Masking the lie of the American Dream. In any case, it’s fucking fun. People were (or seemed) hopeful and happy and maybe even a little proud of their country. No wonder easily pleased readers like myself come back year after year.

Gatsby is all of the things. A colorful train wreck. A history of man. A character piece. A contradiction. The lie of it all, the facade, is fascinating. Terrifying. And so, so exhilarating to watch. Car crash. Boom.