As anyone who knows me can tell you, I have had a bit of an obsession with the writings and life of F. Scott Fitzgerald since I was a teenager. And yet, compared to the actual scholars out there, it appears I have only a passing interest. I’m not sure I ever wanted to be a scholar on anything, but rather, early on was obsessed with the idea of the “Renaissance man,” as there were so many things to be interested in in this world. And to create, that was the highest goal, and so to me the idea of obsessing over someone else’s work to the point of becoming a “scholar” on it, can get kind of silly, and some of those tendencies show through in the 2020 film The Great Gatsby in Connecticut, which I just finished watching.

Before going any further, let me state that there was a lot of interesting things in this film, which focuses on the time the Fitzgeralds spent in Westport, Connecticut, and its influence on their lives. However, this obsessing over who exactly the character of Jay Gatsby based on, and where is the real life West Egg/East Egg, just gets silly. It’s a work of fiction, built on composites of places and people – like most fiction (arguably all fiction, no matter how much the author might state the opposite). What must it be like to devote one’s life to the life/lives of someone else? I do understand that if there were not people like that, there wouldn’t be great biographies, etc., but I can’t imagine inhabiting someone else’s life to that degree, when you only have one life yourself.

As the film rightly states, the Fitzgeralds were essentially the first ever pop stars, with people obsessing over their every move, a trend that continues to this day, most notably in its present form with Taylor Swift. Having certain people in my life who have been obsessed with this woman, it is not the person that matters – you can stick anyone in there – it is the obsession, the withdrawal from one’s own life, the belief that what you need can be found in a person you’ve never known and likely never will know. This is understandable in the teenage years, when we are desperately grasping for people we can relate to and who understand us, and often media seems the only way to do this, imprinting on famous people more than is there in order to fulfill our desires. Continuing to do so as an adult is another thing.

I love reading about Fitzgerald and his work, but I certainly don’t want to be him, and I couldn’t care less if there is ever a conclusive answer to the question of Who is Jay Gatsby? Instead let us ask, Who are we? Why are we doing what we do? When is the last time we’ve sat down with ourselves and looked at all of the things that we are chasing after – nearly always externally – whether that be in people or inanimate things. Let us take inspiration from great works and great people, but only as ways to improve our lives, to create new things from our own breast – in short, to live a good life based on what is in our own hearts. What is it we truly want from life? When we are on our deathbed, do we want to look back and see how much we tried to live in other people’s lives, or do we want to feel satisfied that we did our best to live our own? To me the choice is clear.