Borne Back Ceaselessly Into the Past

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” (180).

This passage concludes the novel in the most profound way. Gatsby is no longer the only one chasing an unachievable dream; instead, “we” all will try to run towards our goals. Our whole lives are built around trying to achieve meaning in society. Although many people try and ignore this fact, we will all eventually die. Everything that we have worked so hard to achieve will lead us to become another statistic; our lives will simply be noted on a death certificate; all of our memories will vanish to nonexistence. This almost reminds me of my AP Environmental project I did last week. We were counting the number of people who died within certain age groups, not even taking note of the person’s name. All those people on the list who probably wanted to reach something in life were turned only into one line on a page:

Name, Date of Birth, Date of Death.

Gatsby’s whole life was defined by his hope to recreate the past—to go back five years and marry Daisy. The more he worked to achieve his goal, the more it moved farther away from him. Using an ellipsis, Fitzgerald highlights the long, dragged out cycle in our lives, only to achieve nothing. This repetitive life that we choose to chase a dream that—in reality—is not even possible to achieve. The American Dream that is the epitome of America’s history is only to be an illusion. Something so well know, but so abstract.

This passage also reminded me of a poem by Langston Hughes:

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

I would argue that Gatsby’s dream goes through the same process of decay that African American dreams go through, as described in the poem. Although Gatsby continues to believe that his dream is possible, it actually becomes the explosion that kills him. The “East…that distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction” makes the American Dream impossible; the corruption and dirt infiltrates Gatsby’s dream. How can Gatsby’s dream be fulfilled in such an unyielding earth?

Another unachievable dream: Watching The Great Gatsby in class J