The Lost Generation (G.

Stein) was defined by Fitzgerald as a New Generation grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought and all faiths in man shaken. Its framework = cruelty of war occasioning the shift from the survival of the fittest (Darwin, Spencer) to the extinction of the fittest (theme) Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. 1925. Ware: Wordsworth, 1993. Gatsby and the Green Light
1.I didnt call him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone he stretched out his arms towards the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness. (16) 2. If it wasnt for the mist we could see your home across the bay, said Gatsby. You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock. Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. Whos this? That? That Mr. Dan Cody, old sport. The name sounded faintly familiar. Hes dead now. He used to be my best friend. There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly taken apparently when he was about eighteen. I adore it, exclaimed Daisy. The pompadour. You never told me you had a pompadour or a yacht. Look at this, said Gatsby quickly. Heres a lot of clippings about you. [...] As I went over to say goodbye I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gatsbys face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart. (60-62) 3. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled down on the sand. Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors eyes a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsbys house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. And as I sat there, brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsbys wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisys dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but thats no matter tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther... And one fine morning So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. (115)

Modernist Writing Juxtaposition / Suspension of Chronology / Past into Present [Daisy]: Whatll we do with ourselves this afternoon, and the day after that, and the next thirty years? And she doesnt understand, he said. She used to be able to understand. Wed sit for hours He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. I wouldnt ask too much of her, I ventured. You cant repeat the past. Cant repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can! He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. Im going to fix everything just the way it was before, he said, nodding determinedly. Shell see. He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was... ... One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned towards each other. Now it was a cool night with the mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were burning out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. His heart beat faster and faster as Daisys white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete. Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something and elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb mans, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever. (70-71)

Library Scene A Window to Jazz Age Society

A stout, middle-aged man with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. What do you think? he demanded impetuously. About what? He waved his hand towards the book-shelves. About that. As a matter of fact you neednt bother to ascertain. I ascertained. Theyre real. The books? He nodded. Absolutely real have pages and everything. I thought theyd be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, theyre absolutely real. Pages and Here! Lemme show you. Taking our scepticism for granted, he rushed to the bookcases and returned with Volume One of the Stoddard Lectures. See! he cried triumphantly. Its a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fellas a regular Belasco. Its a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too didnt cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect? (30)

Gatsby and the American Dream

[Nick Carraway to Gatsbys father] had you seen him lately? He came out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me. He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy book called Hopalong Cassidy. Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you. He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last fly-leaf was printed the word SCHEDULE, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed Dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling Study electricity, etc. Work Baseball and sports Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it Study needed inventions 6.00 6.15-6.30 7.15-8.15 8.30-4.30 4.30-5.00 5.00-6.00 7.00-9.00 A.M. P.M.

GENERAL RESOLVES No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipharable] No more smoking or chewing Bath every other day Read one improving book or magazine per week Save $ 5.00 [crossed out] $ 3.00 per week Be better for parents I come across this book by accident, said the old man. It just shows it, dont it? Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what hes got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I ate like a hog once, and I beat him for it. (110)

Persisting conclusion in Hemingway

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not

break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. (A Farewell to Arms)

Hemingway, Ernest. Fiesta: The Sun Also Rises. 1927. London: Arrow Books, 2004. Brett Ashley The Flapper
Brett came up to the bar. Hello, you chaps. Hello, Brett, I said. Why arent you tight? Never going to get tight any more. I say, give a chap a brandy and soda. She stood holding the glass and I saw Robert Cohn looking at her. He looked a great deal as his compatriot must have looked when he saw the promised land. Cohn, of course, was much younger. But he had the look of eager, deserving expectation. Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slipover jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boys. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey. (18-19)

Post-WW1 Life War Wounds and Modernist Techniques

Undressing, I looked at myself in the mirror of the big armoire beside the bed. That was a typically French way to furnish a room. Practical, too, I suppose. Of all the ways to be wounded. I suppose it was funny. I put on my pyjamas and got into bed. I had the two bullfight papers, and I took their wrappers off. One was orange. The other yellow. They would both have the same news, so whichever I read first would spoil the other. Le Toril was the better paper, so I started to read it. I read it all the way through, including the Petite Correspondance and the Cornigrams. I blew out the lamp. Perhaps I would be able to sleep. My head started to work. The old grievance. Well, it was a rotten way to be wounded and flying on a joke front like the Italian. In the Italian hospital we were going to form a society. It had a funny name in Italian. I wonder what became of the others, the Italians. That was in the Ospedale Maggiore in Milano, Padiglione Ponte. The next building was the Padglione Zonda. There was a statue of Ponte, or maybe it was Zonda. That was where the liaison colonel came to visit me. That was funny. That was about the first funny thing. I was all bandaged up. But they had told him about it. Then he made that wonderful speech: You, a foreigner, an Englishman (any foreigner was an Englishman), have given more than your life. What a speech! I would like to have it illuminated to hang in the office. He never laughed. He was putting himself in my place, I guess. Che mala fortuna! Che mala fortuna! I never used to realize it, I guess. I try and play it along and just not make trouble for people. Probably I never would have had any trouble if I hadnt run into Brett when they shipped me to England. I suppose she only wanted what she couldnt have. Well, people were that way. To hell with people. The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyway. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it. (26-27)

Post-WW1 Life Loss of Religious Faith

At the end of the street I saw the cathedral and walked up toward it. The first time I ever saw it. The first time I ever saw it I thought the faade was ugly but I liked it now. I went inside. It was dim and dark and the pillars went high up, and there were people praying, and it smelt of incense, and there were some wonderful big windows. I knelt and started to pray and prayed for everybody I thought of, Brett and Mike and Bill and Robert Cohn and myself, and all the bullfighters, separately for the ones I liked, and lumping all the rest, then I prayed for myself again, and while I was praying for myself I found I was getting sleepy, so I prayed that the bullfights would be good, and that it would be a fine fiesta, and that we would get some fishing. I wondered if there was anything else I might pray for, and I thought I would like to have some money, so I prayed that I would make a lot of money, and then I started to think how I would make it, and thinking of making money reminded me of the count, and I started wondering about where he was, and regretting I hadnt seen him since that night in Montmartre, and about something funny Brett told me about him, and as all the time I was kneeling with my forehead on the wood in front of me, and was thinking of myself as praying, I was a little ashamed, and regretted that I was such a rotten Catholic, but realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never, but that anyway it was a grand religion, and I only wished I felt religious and maybe I would the next time; and then I was out in the hot sun on the steps of the cathedral, and the forefinger and the thumb of my right hand were still damp, and I felt them dry in the sun. The sunlight was hot and hard, and I crossed over beside some buildings, and walked back along side-streets to the hotel. (85)

Americans in 1920s Europe The Gambit from Puritanism to Prohibition

Say, theres plenty of Americans on this train, the husband said. Theyve got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. Theyve been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now theyre going down to Biarritz and Lourdes. So, thats what they are. Pilgrims. Goddamn Puritans, Bill said. What part of the States you boys from? Kansas City, I said. Hes from Chicago. You both going to Biarritz? No. Were going fishing in Spain. Well, I never cared for it myself. Theres plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. Ive been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any. Mighty little fishing you did on them trips, his wife said. He winked at us. You know how the ladies are. If theres a jug goes along, or a case of beer, they think its hell and damnation. Thats the way men are, his wife said to us. She smoothed her comfortable lap. I voted against prohibition to please him, and because I like a little beer in the house, and then he talks that way. Its a wonder they ever find anyone to marry them. (75) American Expatriates and Stigmatizing Coercion of Societal Conventions Now why is Cohn pitiful? Be ironic. He took a big gulp of coffee. Aw, hell! I said. Its too early in the morning. There you go. And you claim you want to be a writer, too. Youre only a newspaper man. An expatriated newspaper man. You ought to be ironical the moment you get out of bed. You ought to wake up with your mouth full of pity. Go on, I said. Who did you get this stuff from? Everybody. Dont you read? Dont you ever see anybody? You know what you are? Youre an expatriate. Why dont you live in New York? Then youd know these things. What do you want me to do? Come over here and tell you every year? Take some more coffee, I said. Good. Coffee is good for you. Its the caffeine in it. Caffeine, we are here. Caffeine puts a man on her horse and a woman in his grave. You know whats the trouble with you? Youre an expatriate. One of the worst type. Havent you heard that? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not even in the newspapers. He drank the coffee. Youre an expatriate. Youve lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafs. It sounds like a swell life, I said. When do I work? You dont work. One group claims women support you. Another group claims youre impotent. No, I said. I just had an accident. Never mention that, Bill said. Thats the sort of thing that cant be spoken of. Thats what you ought to work up into a mystery. Like Henrys bicycle. (100-101)

Aficion and Hemingways Code of Manly Dignity

5

Aficion means passion. An aficionado is someone who is passionate about the bullfights. All the good bullfighters stayed at Montoyas hotel; that is, those with aficion stayed there. The commercial bullfighters stayed once, perhaps, and then did not come back. The good ones came each year. In Montoyas room were their photographs. (...) We often talked about bulls and bullfighters. I had stopped at the Montoya for several years. We never talked for very long at a time. It was simply the pleasure for discovery what we each felt. Men would come in from distant towns and before they left Pamplona stop and talk for a few minutes with Montoya about bulls. These men were aficionados. Those who were aficionados could always get rooms even when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it would amuse them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had aficion, and there was not password, no set questions that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination with the questions always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the head on the shoulder, or a Buen hombre. But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. (115) The fight with Cohn had not touched his spirit but his face had been smashed and his body hurt. He was wiping all that out now. Each thing that he did with the bull wiped that out a little cleaner. It was a good bull, a big bull, and with horns, and it turned and recharged easily and surely. It was what Romero wanted in bulls. (190) Lost Generation I thought you werent going to ever talk about it. How can I help it? Youll lose it if you talk about it. I talk around it. You know I feel rather damned good, Jake. You should. You know it makes me feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch. Yes. Its sort of what we have instead of God. Some people have God, I said. Quite a lot. He never worked very well with me. (214-215)