A Short Epilogue of Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby

CHAPTER X

EVERY TIME I WALKED across my yard in the Middle West, the voice of Gatsby whispered in my head. The truth stuck with me as far as I could remember. After I left West Egg, the emptiness and sorrow haunted me, like a shadow.

  One morning, a letter was left on the gate of my house. It had been already some years that I could recall the last time I received any letters from anyone. It was anonymous as there was no name signed on the cover of the letter. I read the letter, it was from Daisy. She and Tom had moved to Vancouver having their new life without any stains from the past. It seemed to me that everyone who knew Gatsby had moved on. Gatsby and his loneliness failed to memorialize anyone, but me, and me alone. It could be because of my admiration and companionship for him, which restrained me from the freedom of letting the memory of his presence go. But if I also chose to move on, the great existence of a beautiful personality a person could have, which possessed in Gatsby would vanish into the air to the eternity.

  I was a lucky man; it was extremely rare to meet a person with an extraordinary gift for hope and passion for love like Gatsby, the Great Gatsby. And I shall never find any other person like him. This probably was the reason that I could not seem to let go of his existence in my thought.

  She mentioned the reason she decided to stay with Tom. She explained that she could not forget the past and the memories that she had with Tom and leave her family for Gatsby. I understood Gatsby wanted too much, but it was not his fault. He had already picked out the green light and he had come a long way. He fought with hope and came to a point that he could hardly fail to reach his dream. She did not come to his funeral because she could not face Gatsby, the man she once loved. I understood the pain she bore. Love is the metaphor of life, hope and dream. She did love him, but she also loved Tom. It was not her fault to choose Tom. And it was not Gatsby’s fault to love her and wait for her until his last breath. This tragedy is the fault of nature.

  Jordan Baker, the woman I was in love with. I sat by myself reminiscing the time I spent with her. Time flew faster than one could imagine. For a time, even a blink, an instant, a second, a minute or just a moment was enough to build up memories. All the memories of her were still bearing in my mind, she was a flawless illustration. If I just lied to myself for once, we could have been together. I knew she loved me and I knew I loved her. I realized how important a decision could be. Once you made a decision, you had to live with it for the rest of your life. Gatsby picked the green light, and I made my own decision, and now I was suffering from regrets.

  I was in my armchair, looking at the sunset through my windows. I put my hands on the desk, and I dropped my quill. I lowered myself to pick the quill up. The sky was already dark. I pulled out a paper and dipped my quill into the ink. I took a deep breath and wrote, “Dear Jordan …”

Reference

Fitzgerald Scott, F. The Great Gatsby (first published in 1926 by Heinemann Educational Books Ltd).