This sample essay demonstrates the full range of A-level skills needed to meet the assessment objectives at the highest level.
“They’re a rotten crowd.” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.” How does Fitzgerald convey a “rotten crowd” in The Great Gatsby and to what effect?
“Rotten” describes a state of putrefaction. It is a word we apply to decomposing fruit, fruit that is over-ripe, decaying and which, close-up, stinks. What a brilliant word to convey the decaying civilisation of post-war Europe and America that surrounds Gatsby – and repulses his friend, Nick – shocking him into moral awareness.
It is primarily through the moral judgements of his narrator, Nick Carraway, – the character that goes East to make money only to retreat revolted by the moral, cultural and social rottenness that he finds among the moneyed classes he wished to join – that Fitzgerald presents his “rotten crowd.” Through Nick, Fitzgerald exercises his narrative art with extraordinary compression: cultural allusion and symbolic names and images are central to his method – underpinning the actions of his characters – so too a poet’s feel for the sound and connotations of words.
Fitzgerald’s allusive method brilliantly conveys the rottenness of Gatsby’s crowd. Names, and names of books allude to a rotten world. Relationships in the East are rotten and infect the outlying members of the great Carraway dynasty: Nick’s second cousin twice removed is married to a philanderer; already unfaithful on honeymoon, we find him in the second chapter introducing Nick to his mistress. Now, the great Gatsby himself has been no monk (he ‘knew women early’ (82) Nick tells us, momentarily picturing a proud and promiscuous young Gatsby), but in pursuing Daisy, he pursues more than sex: he wishes to attain a higher state of being – to ‘romp with the mind of God,’ to ‘gulp down the milk of wonder.’ Romping and gulping suggests a child’s wide-eyed amoral appetite for unbounded satisfaction. Tom’s rottenness, his sexual corruption, then is apparent by contrast with the sublime, high-minded aspirations of the man who would cuckold him. Taking then, Nick, to the apartment where he conducts his affair, Tom leaves Nick while he and Myrtle both disappear – presumably to the bedroom – before reappearing after Nick has had time to ‘read a chapter’ of Simon Called Peter. A chapter-read is an innovative way to measure the length of a human coupling and perhaps degrades (reveals the rottenness of) Tom’s relationship in its brevity (or in its longevity, reveals the rotter luxuriating in his sin) – but more importantly, it is through the title of the book that Fitzgerald reveals the rottenness of this crowd. Robert Keable’s 1922 best-seller records the career of an earnest young clergyman, Peter Graham who volunteers as an army chaplain in the First World War. His faith fails to sustain him on the path of righteousness and he abandons his nice middle class fiancée, Hilda, for the generous charms of a prostitute and a generation of young women whose sexual freedom is more aligned to the Myrtles of Gatsby than the prim propriety of Hilda and the Edwardian England Peter has left behind. However, Peter is not simply a lost cause to the church, he is disillusioned with its teachings and with human nature, the sexual freedoms and easy pleasures of the war generations seem to him more real, more essentially human than the morality he preached from the bible. The novel, condemned in his review as ‘immoral’ by Fitzgerald, is seriously concerned with what war reveals of essential human nature: its immorality, its pessimism lies in its disillusion with love. Fitzgerald’s Gatsby holds on to his aspirations, his faith in the possibility of transcendence through love, despite the hardships of his (quickly overcome!) poverty. It is perhaps only through the contrast with Keable’s response to war that we can appreciate the extraordinary hope implicit in Fitzgerald’s, in his faith in the higher callings and aspirations of the human heart. It would be interesting to know if Fitzgerald had a particular chapter in mind that “didn’t make any sense to [Nick].”
Thus, almost passing reference to a contemporary novel, is fraught with much meaning. The use of a character’s reading material to shape and create meaning is a familiar part of the novelist’s art: think Austen’s Catherine Morland, gently mocked by her author for her indulgence in The Mysteries of Udolfo and the power it has over her imagination. This allusive method is not surprising in Fitzgerald: it is the foundation of Eliot’s “The Waste Land” –a poem Fitzgerald knew by heart, written in the year he sets his Gatsby. In it, the morality, the spiritual condition, of one generation is measured against representative cultural fragments from earlier civilisations.
Fitzgerald is similarly wide-ranging in his frame of reference to convey his “rotten crowd,” alluding to contemporary novels and events as well as ancient texts. Take the casual naming of just one party-goer for example: Ismay. Ismay is collected up as part of a group: “the Ismays and the Christies.” Perhaps Fitzgerald has in mind Bruce Ismay, Managing Director, of the White Star Line and held to blame for the greatest shipping disaster of all time: the loss of the Titanic in 1912; he was J Brute Ismay to the press at the time. He was rumoured to have put pressure on the Chief Engineer to drive the ship faster for a record time for the Atlantic Crossing and was himself a survivor. Newspaper cartoons showed him watching the ship sink from the safety of a lifeboat whilst the true “women and children first” heroes stood facing death on the doomed ship. So, Ismay comes to represent the selfish, self-serving rottenness of Fitzgerald’s contemporary society and the inversion of its moral values.
Ismay is among the first of the East Eggers on Nick’s famous list that helpfully divides the party guests into two according to the Egg whence they arrive: East Egg is the old money (Jesmond) in our local terms; West Egg is new money (we think Darras Hall). The West Eggers are “all connected with the movies in one way or another.” So one “controlled films Par Excellence” another is a “promoter” (and at the Chapter VI party we meet “the moving-picture director and his Star” (89)). In contemporary – and non-party political terms we find in West Egg the New Labour celebrity culture of film stars, pop stars, and fashion designers as well as the stalwart Old Labour of the Trade Union movement meeting at Blair’s parties: it would be a mistake to believe either group is any more free from corruption than Gatsby’s guests. Fitzgerald’s crowd fills up the “empty spaces of a timetable” (52) that is now out of date. And their “gray” names assigns them to the ash heaps of The Valley of the Ashes – where the detritus of a dead civilisation is dumped.
The whole list in its conception is a brilliant tribute to writers of the past: “the Prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if ever I knew it, I have forgotten” concludes the roll with a wonderful contempt for empty title (“of something”) and undeserved respect (“whom we called”). The forgotten name that concludes his portrait echoes Chaucer’s final valediction on his Merchant:
For sothe (truly) he
was a worthy man with alle, in
every way
But, sooth (truth) to seyn, I noot (= ne woot, don’t know )how men hym calle.
“I noot how men hym calle,” he is in other words unworthy of name or remembering. Of all writers, Chaucer is so especially concerned with a man’s worth, (the word is used ironically in the quotation above) his worthiness, the parity between the inner and the outer man. The choice of the Merchant is apt: he represents financial rottenness, self-serving material greed.
The last line of all in Nick’s guest list, “All these people came to Gatsby’s house in the summer,” in its obvious summing up of what we already knows echoes Homer’s method in the famous muster of the armies at the beginning of The Iliad, (e.g. “These were the men whom Amphimachus and Nastes brought.”). The very idea of remembering each with some anecdote of their deeds is again Homeric – but how unedifying their deeds: fighting with bums, drunk on the gravel, arriving with another’s wife, run over by Mrs. Ulysses Swett. The name Ulysses is enough to point us to our Homer. This “rotten crowd” is mocked in comparison to the Greek Heroes of the great ancient civilization of the past: the one at its heroic zenith, the other at its rotten nadir.
Plenty of food then for scholars wishing to track down all these names and associations. Ulysses Swett is in fact a real person (born 1868) and a member of the famous Swett family of Cape Cod who traced themselves back through thirteen generation. However, the names have an immediate, not just a scholarly impact. Swett (homophone for a squalid bodily function) is allied with Belcher (the, what, shamelessly, insolent expulsion of stomach gas through the mouth?– usually avoided because of the bad smell) and Smirke (the silent mocking laugh) – all aspects of our base corporeal rather than spiritual natures.
Worse are the animal names: Blackbuck, Roebuck, connoting both money (buck=dollar) and animal sexuality (a buck is a male deer – like the word ‘tup’ we make the gender distinction usually to refer to sexual behaviour). The name ‘Blackbuck’ perhaps evokes Tom’s fear of the Rise of the Colored Empires, of the sexual potency of black races according to popular myth and also a fear of the black dollar, of black wealth as a part of rising black supremacy. So the names have a resonance that goes beyond the animals and fish they denote (Beluga, Whitebait, Hammer Head – it is easy fit them into a taxonomical classification). It is fun to learn from Wikipedia that the Beluga whale has a ‘high-pitched twitter.’ Such information adds another dimension to our own imagined constructions of Gatsby’s party crowd. But the name itself seems ugly. Is it because it has the consonants of the word ‘ugly’ in it? Or because, as we search to make sense of an unfamiliar word, our brains try out the word ‘bulge’ through the association of sound and thus evoke some ungainly swollen creature, some ulcerous tumescence of money and immorality. Is there something belchy in the sudden release of air in the second vowel sound, Beluga? And that is before we think about the associations with caviar and the untouchable luxuries of the war-time rich.
And then there are the Hammerheads: another wonderfully evocative name. What rottenness does this conjure? A family of boneheads. The Hammerhead Shark has evolved an elongated and flattened skull perhaps for the manipulation of prey – nice associations there. It also contains the idea of the tool after which the shark is named, the hammer, blunt bludgeoning instrument. Picture it here in the hands of one of Gatsby’s bootlegging cronies, crushing the skull of some unfortunate prey. Hear in its sounds, the repeated glottal fricatives, (‘Hammerhead’) the heavy breathing of the hammer-wielder exerting himself in the act of skull-crushing.
There is a poetry in this carefully constructed mock epic that delights in the cultural allusion, in the connotative capacity and the phonological features of words to express the sheer rottenness of this crowd.
Fitzgerald offers a wide, but not comprehensive, survey of the animal kingdom to convey his rotten crowd: in all this verminous, predatory, bestial crowd there is not one airborne, flying creature. There are fish aplenty as well as the semi-aquatic rodent, Ernest Beaver and the tree dwelling Doctor Webster Civet, who despite his airy habitat “drowned last summer.” James B. (“Rot-Gut”) Ferret take his name from the domesticated earth-burrow dwelling carnivorous mammal. All three (beaver, civet, ferret) are noted for scent glands, genital or anal: in the wild, they pollute the air to mark territory; killed, they are used for perfume. The point is of course that Fitzgerald’s elemental imagery portrays Gatsby’s aspirations to transcend mortal bounds as an aspiration to fly. Daisy is associated with air, floating, fluttering, anchored like a balloon. Gatsby aspires to her airiness which lifts her among other things, ‘above the hot struggles of the poor.” (122) He is condemned, through Fitzgerald’s imagery to death by water: he is shot in a swimming pool, to be buried in “soggy ground” (142). The moment is foreshadowed at Nick’s tea-party reunion: Gatsby stands “in a puddle of water glaring tragically” (72). Fitzgerald’s rotten crowd is an earth-bound water-dwelling crowd and they drag Gatsby down to his watery death and earthy resting place. Their very names make the air he breathes stink.
This crowd perhaps constitutes the ‘funny fruits’ (103) of New York of a civilisation that has, in Spenglerian terms, (Oswald Spengler, The Decline of Civilization – the book Fitzgerald never recovered from when writing Gatsby) organically outgrown itself, lost touch with the nature that feeds it to produce the cities, and city folk, this ‘rotten crowd’ that are its fruit. And Fitzgerald’s judgement reveals Nick’s growth to moral understanding – he too will reject the wealth of the East, its money, machines and rottenness to nurture the reputation and aspirations of Jay Gatsby, seeking his flower, his Daisy Fay, who, in his imagination (according to Nick) represents the green breast of an earlier, rural America. For Nick, in Gatsby, found an incarnation of the Faustian legend (there was indeed a Faustina O’Brien –a diminutive and corrupt mini-Faust on that party-list (53)), of man’s desire to transcend the bounds of his mortality and the rottenness of his world.