I have read this book at least five times (at various stages of my life), but, as I was telling my friend Rod, a real classic is one that mirrors different things in you each time you read it. Usually I am in a Nick Caraway mood, but this past holiday, I felt more like the disillusioned Gatsby. Why doesn’t matter, but the book was there for me, and that does. Rather than write an essay that states the obvious I thought I would indulge myself with a poem that is my take on the classic. See what you think. John
Rosebud Book Reviews 