Eszter Forvith
Dear Mr. Gatsby,
I can’t say that your death didn’t shock me, although I should have expected it. From the beginning the hope you carried with your person seemed so blinding that it could easily make someone forget about what an absurd challenge you wanted to take on.
Chasing an unreachable dream. Throwing those luxurious parties in hopes that one day precious Daisy would walk in and fill that void of loneliness that eats away at the soul every day, a pain maybe you were used to having, maybe not even registering as pain. Just the quiet noises of the night, and the pink light coming from Daisy’s window, the dying hope that grew graver with each second you did not hear from your beloved those reassuring words. But who knows really, because you certainly never let anyone close enough to figure out what really lies in the heart of Jay Gatz. Maybe not even yourself.
Even the love you had for Daisy was based on lies, you loved the idea of her, you loved her life and the way her person fit perfectly in your dream that you had so carefully built up for yourself. But maybe that’s just enough. I mean, how can you not call that pure determination and fierceness with which you fought for her anything but love? If nothing else, sheer stupidity would be a fitting alternative, but that’s as good as love, isn’t it?
Your life, filled with people that only see the surface, and in your death, nobody left to care, no one to mourn you. A happy man full of ambitious ideas and a dream for life. A man always achieving to outgrow the status he was born in, a millionaire in the mind but always that penniless poor boy at heart.
Sincerely,
F. E.