The Great Gatsby
Chapters 1-3
In-class timed writing
Books and literature have long been considered the purview of the *bourgeoisie, the class
primarily concerned with property. How are the passages in Chapters 1 and 3 about Nick’s,
Tom’s, and Gatsby’s books reflective of the themes within the novel about class distinctions and
the characters within the novel?
In a well-developed essay, discuss the distinctions between the three main male characters—
Nick, Tom, and Gatsby—symbolized by the passages about their books. Use evidence from the
excerpts below to explain the importance of class distinctions within the novel and among the
characters.
*bourgeoisie is the noun; bourgeois the adjective
Chapter 1
There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the
young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment
securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising
to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the
high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college--one year I
wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"--and now I was going to
bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the
"well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram--life is much more successfully looked at from a
single window, after all.
Chapter 1
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist
about things. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white
race will be —will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He
reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we ——”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has
worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other
races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
Chapter 3
The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded, but Gatsby was not there. She couldn’t
find him from the top of the steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried an
important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English
oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
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 toward the book-shelves.
“About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They’re real.”
“The books?”
He nodded.
“Absolutely real — have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard.
Matter of fact, they’re 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. “It’s a bona-fide piece of printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a
regular Belasco. It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too —
didn’t cut the pages. But what do you want? What do you expect?”
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on its shelf, muttering that if one brick
was removed the whole library was liable to collapse.
“Who brought you?” he demanded. “Or did you just come? I was brought. Most people were
brought.”
Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully, without answering.
“I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,” he continued. “Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you
know her? I met her somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought
it might sober me up to sit in a library.”
“Has it?”
“A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an hour. Did I tell you about the books?
They’re real. They’re ——”
“You told us.” We shook hands with him gravely and went back outdoors.