A novel is a story about someone. Someone who begins as one kind of person and, through the story, becomes another kind of person. In The Great Gatsby, that “someone” isn’t really a “someone.” It’s a decade, an era. The glittering 1920s. Those “roaring twenties” don’t exactly “change” through the course of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s harrowing tale. But they do look a lot uglier at the end of the story than they did at the beginning.
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