The Great Gatsby

I really wish Fitzgerald had written a Jordan Baker spin-off sequel; clearly, there's a mysterious depth hidden beneath her skin. Ideally it would feature some frosty dates with Nick in hotel parlours, richly plated in impersonal art deco (the hotel's, that is). Their words would carome passed each other like struck golf balls, disappearing into the dark recesses beneath vanishing velvet curtains. Whole pages would be dedicated to Nick's brooding internal monologue, emerging as not so many pointless observations, like the abrupt scratch on vinyl as the record ends. The tone would be Nabokovian. The epilogue lighthearted.

In summary: was Daisy even in this book? I barely recall. Gatsby's anxiety was not endearing. The dinner party with the mistress claims the most memorability. Nick's principle of disengagement makes for b-o-ring protagonism. Wonderfully written.