The masterpiece of Francis Scott fitzgerald. Masterpiece of ephemeral, blazing glories, especially beautiful they are hanging by a thread. And this thread is infinitesimal because nothing of what constitutes the world of Fitzgerald has substance. Everything is transient, fugitive. This is our world he predicted through the destinies of his disenchanted terribly fragile hero. Because their success is only based on vacuum, the lack of value of all transcendence. And the genius of Fitzgerald lies precisely in its ability to make with unparalleled sensitivity and certainly none, the suffering of these creatures tossed by a world that makes no sense and against which they can do nothing. Thinking it well: their impotence, it is ours.
