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Tuesday, May 7, 2013

365 Poems: Somebody turn off the (green) light

Day 127

Redford=Gatsby.
ADDITION: Read this analysis by Andromeda Romao-Lax on Huffington Post Books; of  the many, many reviews of both the book and movie, we like this best.

Sometimes, lots of times, poetry is found in prose: F. Scott Fitzgerald.

All over the internets, what with the new movie coming out, and now we keep having to see Jay as Leo DiCaprio. MAJOR ACK. Because we just watched DiCaprio in Man in the Iron Mask and we may never recover. How could any movie professional watch those rushes and think they were watching something good being made? Jeremy Irons, WHY?

Although, perhaps saving us: Toby McGuire.

Anyway, the poetry part.

Read first. Links later.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
And this:
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone-fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor's mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
Also:
But above the gray land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic-their irises are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days, under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground.
Do I love the book? Yea. But does everyone? No so much:

Kathryn Shultz on Vulture.com hates the book. It's good to read this, just to remind one that indeed, the book is not perfect.

As usual, the NYT has all we need to know.

F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald still aren't boring. HuffPost Books has 12 things you need to know.

Best of all, The Great Gatsby Video Game from Slate! The American dream is yours. Finally.



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