Disclaimer: I don't own The Great Gatsby. I receive no money, only the gifts in the form of compliments.
A/N: I do not claim to portray an exact characterization of Nick Caraway. I try my hardest, but my own personality is inevitably entwined with his thoughts and words of this creation of mine.
F. Scott Fitzgerald created him to be a perfect narrator: tolerant and open minded. But I like to think he has feelings that he can't control like all of us. He still remains a character that all love to confess things to, but I delve deeper into Nick rather than the story you have already read: The Great Gatsby.
In the perspective of Nick Caraway:
When I traveled to New York, I entertained myself with wild ideas of my life being swept up into fame and fortune.
I imagined myself living in a luxurious place, different than what I had lived and grown accustomed to. I pictured a life that was in stark contrast from the previous: men and women surrounding me with praise, owning fabulous and frivolous things, filled with much gayety and laughter.
It is not unusual for one to want such things from time to time, however, when put into context it's almost enough to make one sick.
That is just what I felt after all this time at my neighbor Gatsby's house. I call it a house, for it is certainly not a home.
Try as I might, I have no doubt my face exposed my feelings as I watched young girls and men arm in arm stumbling over but blades of grass and spraying spittle as they drank deeply from their glasses filled with a commonplace poison.
I could not keep the slump of my shoulders away as saw women gossiping, undoubtedly, horrid things of their peers. Their frantic whispers into each other's ears could be mistaken for passion, if it were not for their pointing fingers and snarling laughter.
I tried uselessly to keep the blood from rushing to my cheeks when I spotted a couple (of whatever genders) embracing passionately. (It also took a beat for my eyes to be torn from such lurid scenes.)
The worst enemy of all I had to fight against was my own treacherous feelings. My heart which I had been feeding for months with the hope of companionship, with the want of love, and the assumption of such feelings being returned; is now an organ that struggles to beat with the sorrow that smothers it.
Such despair! Such a feeling of betrayal! And I can blame no one but myself.
Such feelings, all of them listed above this, though can be blamed on one person. My most factitious neighbor: Jay Gatsby.