Fitzgerald always seems to adopt the position of outsider looking in. He never really seems to be part of anything. Even his standpoint as a third person narrator seems more removed than is usual, as if he is reluctant to allow his characters to adopt their own voices. Not that, as an author, he imposes his own values or positions. It is more a case of his being somewhat difficult to pin down.
Perhaps this is because he was from out of town, if that town be this book’s version of New York, where much of the action takes place. The author reminds us several times that he is a mid-Westerner from St Paul, an identity and origin he seems to regard as both safe and homely when compared to the candle flame attraction of the metropolis he dared not approach too close.
There is, however, a general feeling of the persistent little guy prevailing, of the propertied, apparently privileged receiving eventual, and a highly moral, comeuppance. It’s a perspective he would use in The Great Gatsby, where the observation of a highlife from distance renders it desirable, whereas greater proximity reveals its flaws.
But this is not a coherent set of stories. They stand
alone and were designed to do so. They are clearly best experienced
individually and then similarities of theme and style will not confuse. Modern
readers need to be aware of the fact that these stories were written about a
century ago and contain some attitudes and language that today would be
difficult to express in public, let alone publish.
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