In the spirit of Banned Book Week, I’ve chosen to review a frequently banned book. The Great Gatsby has been challenged and removed from classrooms and library shelves at various times for reasons including sexual references, “profane” language, and depictions of adultery and alcohol use. The novel appears on lists of frequently challenged classics compiled by the American Library Association and related organizations.

This book is like a small, perfectly cut shard of glass: elegant surfaces, sharp edges, and a surprising sting when you look closely. I teach this novel on the platform I work at currently, and the classroom reactions I get have reminded me how much reading is a conversation between text and reader, and how cultural background changes which parts of the book land hard and which parts drift by.

The novel’s canny control of point-of-view, a judgmental Nick Carraway telling us about Gatsby’s dream and the hollowness of old money, is both its strength and, for me, its limitation. Nick’s moralizing gaze gives the book a coherent voice, but it also narrows the novel’s humanity. We almost never see the world except as Nick chooses to frame it. That skewed viewpoint is why the ending, the plot twist, and the moral fallout still hit me every time. The book gives us a climax that feels inevitable and then painfully unresolved.

As a whole, the book can feel thin on action. Much of the “plot” is social maneuvering, parties, and revelations delivered via rumor or later recollection. If you’re the sort of reader who wants kinetic scenes and sustained drama, Gatsby can test your patience. I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it as a teenager. Its pleasures are often retrospective and full of world-weary reflection, things teens don’t always value. My current student, however, is unusually enthusiastic about Gatsby’s romance and tragedy, so who’s to say?

One of my continuing frustrations with the novel is how little we learn about the women who live at its center, Daisy, Jordan, and Myrtle, and even about minor figures like the Finn (the servant) who occupy real positions in the social web. We get Daisy largely as a projection (idealized, then revealed to be small), Jordan as a sketch of modern cynicism, and Myrtle through others’ outrage. Even after reading through the entire book several times, I’m left with questions such as: What were Daisy’s real options in her social world? Why did Jordan cheat and lie, or did she? What did the Finn think about her place in the household and Nick himself? What actually mattered to Myrtle beyond her brief, tragic grasp at glamour? 

In general, I find the sharp, sudden scenes depicting violence to be abrupt and unexpected. The incidents of overt racism and classism are often hard to read from the world’s current position. Despite some definite cringe, I keep teaching The Great Gatsby because it’s compact, richly written, and full of teachable techniques: voice, symbolism (the green light, the Valley of Ashes), and the way an unreliable narrator shapes what a story becomes. It generates excellent class discussions about the American Dream, class, and social performance. But I also teach it with a critique. We read it as a masterpiece and as a text with blind spots, including limited female perspective, a narrow moral lens, and an emphasis on spectacle over sustained action.

If you love it, you’ll find it elegant and quietly devastating. If you find it unsatisfying (as I often do), the book still rewards close reading, especially if you hold a pencil to its margins and ask the questions it leaves unanswered.