I have always turned to art for entertainment, but rarely for anything else. While the odd book or film might inspire something resembling a feeling, I only ever really cared about the unfolding of the plot or some other trite facet. As far as I was concerned, this was the only way to consume art. 

Of course, such a narrow-minded view of things cannot persist for long, and I was eventually enlightened to the error of my ways.  

The biggest credit I can give my Junior year English teacher is she introduced me to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, which has since become my favorite book. 

The joy of that particular classic was that it was not like any of the ones I had read before. Instead of being stalely written with a painfully generalized message that has become obvious in hindsight (sorry Of Mice And Men), the prose of Fitzgerald’s story leaps off the page, instilling in the reader truths about humanity that have retained their relevance almost one hundred years later. 

This was the first great piece of art that I had ever understood. While the plot and characters certainly held my interest, it was the themes and messages that propelled me forward. It was the feelings it inspired in me that entrenched it so firmly in my mind that I know I’ll never forget it. 

From this opened a whole new way to look at the entertainment I had consumed. No longer did I look towards books for plots and storylines, but for ideas and themes. While I read through some other classics, none of them struck me the same way Gatsby had. 

This disappointed me to no end. Could such a marvelous reading opportunity appear only once in a lifetime. Fortunately, I would find another Gatsby, in the unlikeliest of places.