The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Every summer, either in the early months of June after the universities have let out their wards, or in the late months of August when the first wisps of an autumn breeze tumble through the crack in the windows, I find myself falling into the days of my youth. Every year, like clockwork, I would set myself down on my front porch and read a certain novel from start to finish.
To some, the Great Gatsby is nothing more than an addition to the curriculum of a lazy high school English class. To others, it was a novel that explored and defined the pomp and excess of the post-war generation. To me, the Great Gatsby will always be that lost summer, that self-contained unit in time where one suddenly discovers how out of place with their society they are, how confidences can be broken, and some friends become swept away with the first leaves of autumn.
Regardless of the place this book holds, or fails to hold, in your mind, memory or nostalgia, few could argue that F. Scott Fitzgerald was anything but a master storyteller, with a hold over the English language that few authors allow us to witness.
