I once made a mistake of recommending the Great Gatsby to someone who didn’t ‘get’ the hype of the novel. Her main issue? Jay Gatsby himself. F. Scott Fitzgerald had loosely based the character on aspects of his own life, portraying Gatsby as a tragic figure – a man of unwavering devotion who was ultimately undone by falling in love with the wrong lady, Daisy. My friend, however, had little sympathy.  ‘It was his fault…’ she declared in a sharp, caustic review, ‘if she was so terrible…he should have let her go’. And while I know she’ll take this in the light-hearted spirit it’s meant –   *Jolade, just know that in my mind I blocked you. I just never followed up with it in real life.

I don’t know about most people but there’s that inconsolable rage that boils within me whenever someone fails to grasp the literal genius of a text I’d recommended. The truth is, before recommending a text, one must first assess the closeness of this person, their character, and, most importantly, their worthiness in experiencing a work that has been foundational in shaping who we are. Only after careful consideration, when one is finally convinced, they are deserving, does the final act of recommendation take place. And even then, it is done with the hope that they are slowly absorbed into the cult of feeling shaped by the book, forging a ‘fellowship of experience’ that deepens future discussions, dissections, and re-readings.

When this trusted individual fails to ‘get’ why a book is so special- or worse, points out flaws, that aren’t really flaws but a failure to grasp the novel’s subtle emotional depth – It shakes me to my core. Suddenly, I’m thrown into a spiral of soul-searching, one that inevitably leads me back to re-reading the book, desperate to reclaim the feeling that this lunatic- whom I’d foolishly trusted- has carelessly tarnished. And so, I returned to the Great Gatsby determined to read it with fresh eyes. The crux of my reviewer’s criticism centred on the unrealistic nature of Jay Gatsby’s love. How morally justifiable was it, she argued, that Gatsby remained hopelessly in love with Daisy for all those years? Even after she married that Yale polo player? Even as he schemed to exploit the cracks in her marriage, intent on tearing it apart.

Is it truly healthy to remain in love for so long with someone who has moved on? and what does that say about Gatsby character?  More importantly, was he ever really in love with Daisy as a person and not what she represented- the embodiment of a world he had always coveted as an envious outsider?  All of this leads to the unsettling conclusion that the emotional world Fitzgerald created, powered by Gatsby was fundamentally flawed- even morally bankrupt.

These criticisms aren’t entirely crazy. Indeed, in the real world I can easily imagine a legion of feminists and love pragmatists cheering on my friend’s arguments as reasonable and real. Love, they would assert in her defence, isn’t some magical feeling that springs up in one’s heart with no explanation- it is something cultivated, something that grows. As I’ve said, there are valid points to be made here, but I can’t help but suspect that at the heart of these arguments is a fervent belief that all human desires and emotions must conform to reason- that even love must be rationalized.

These people approach love like economics believing that, ceteris paribus, human behaviour will always follow a rational, reasonable path, given a particular set of circumstances. This isn’t because they lack emotion or haven’t experienced love- most have, whether it is some form of fleeting infatuation or something deeper. Rather, their pragmatism shapes their perspective. If love as they envisioned it, doesn’t work out, the next logical step is to move on and build something more stable, more manageable with someone else. As I’ve said before, there’s nothing inherently wrong or crazy about these beliefs. However, as I pointed out to my caustic reviewer at the beginning of this article, the common mistake people make is assuming that everyone is capable of making this transition. And if, like Jay, someone remains trapped in the closet of an ill-fated love, their inability to move on is seen as a personal failing—something broken within them. I find this belief absurd. It assumes that people always understand why they fall in love in the first place. But in reality? I’d hazard a guess that most don’t.

People often find themselves in love through inexplicable circumstances, drawn in by the intangible qualities of their lover which they can’t quite define. Perhaps that’s why we use the phrase “fall in love.” I’m unsure of its exact etymology, but it seems to capture that unconscious moment when one suddenly finds themselves in a completely unfamiliar emotional state—just as an actual fall is unplanned and uncontrollable. This phenomenon is brilliantly depicted in The Great Gatsby. In analyzing Gatsby’s love for Daisy, my reviewer argued that his love wasn’t for her as a person, but for what she represented—a symbol of the life he had always envied and longed for.

Correctly noting that Jay Gatsby was heavily modeled on F. Scott Fitzgerald, my reviewer cited a well-known fact: Fitzgerald’s first love, Ginevra King, reportedly halted her affections for the young Princetonian because he didn’t make the cut socially. King’s father is even said to have told a heart-broken Fitzgerald that, “Poor boys shouldn’t think of marrying rich girls”. Literary scholars have long linked Ginevra to the inspiration for Daisy, and like Daisy, she eventually married into a wealthy American family. Yes, the parallels are clear. But again, when analyzing a literary character, it’s important not to assume they are mere replicas of their author’s persona. And if Gatsby’s love for Daisy was purely about what she represented—a gateway into the world he had always coveted—why didn’t he simply settle for Jordan Baker? She, too, came from privilege, and as an accomplished sports star, she seemed a more fitting match. But, of course, love doesn’t work that way.

People don’t choose to fall in love the same way they decide to settle down with a partner in marriage. The latter is a conscious decision, carefully planned, while the former simply happens. That’s precisely what Fitzgerald captured at the core of Gatsby’s feelings, as described by Nick Carraway when recounting the moment Gatsby first kissed Daisy:

“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.”

This isn’t just beautiful prose—it’s a reflection of reality.

Of course, Nick couldn’t fully understand why Gatsby would want to try to recreate this feeling. As he aptly described, it was as if Gatsby sought to:

“…recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been disordered since then, but if he could once return to a starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was…”

This, of course, is the inexplicable nature of Gatsby’s love for Daisy—something Jay himself doesn’t fully comprehend. But asking him to simply move on misses the central point of both the novel and love itself.

People who are truly in love, and whose love is reciprocated, don’t need to understand the reasons behind their feelings. They simply enjoy what has come to them naturally. But like Jay, when someone finds themselves burdened by unrequited love—or, in Daisy’s case, half-requited love—you can’t just move on. How could you? When you experience such intense emotions for someone that feel both extraordinary and inexplicable? To everyone else, they might seem ordinary, but to you, they represent the pinnacle of human perfection.

In two key passages from the novel, Nick illustrates the emotional divide between Jay and Daisy, capturing the psychology of love with remarkable insight.

“Finally we came to Gatsby’s own apartment, a bedroom and a bath and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall. He hadn’t once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real. Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest room of all—except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh.

‘It’s the funniest thing, old sport,’ he (Jay Gatsby) said hilariously. ‘I can’t—when I try to—’

He can’t what? My guess is, he can’t explain why he feels the way he does. This moment perfectly illustrates Gatsby’s overwhelming emotion and inability to rationalize his feelings, a struggle that lies at the heart of his complex love for Daisy.

This feeling was undoubtedly unique to Jay, especially since, as the novel makes clear, Nick saw Daisy as quite ordinary. Reflecting on Daisy’s reaction to their reunion, Nick continues:

“He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us—shirts of sheer linen, thick silk, and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in a many-colored disarray. While we admired, he brought more, and the soft, rich heap mounted higher—shirts with stripes, scrolls, plaids in coral, apple-green, lavender, faint orange, and monograms of Indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. ‘They’re such beautiful shirts,’ she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. ‘It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.’”

This moment highlights Daisy’s reaction in stark contrast to Gatsby’s idealization of her. While he sees beauty and significance in everything about her, Daisy’s emotional response seems somewhat superficial.

In these two passages, the narrator clearly highlights the implicit gulf between Daisy’s ‘ordinariness’ and the profound, life-changing effect she had on Jay, the truly extraordinary character. To Jay, however, Daisy was far from ordinary, and he could never fully explain why. His quest to recreate the feeling she once gave him—the one that made him feel whole—ultimately led to his downfall. This is the genius of The Great Gatsby. It isn’t just a tale of lavish parties and the ‘Jazz Age.’ It is ultimately a story about the inexplicability of romantic love. Because for all his wealth and success, Jay still felt a significant part of his life was missing, and Daisy was the key to solving this puzzle. Until he could understand what that missing piece was and what it meant, how could he ever simply move on?

*some names have been changed to protect privacy.