What makes gossip so absolutely riveting—what makes tale-telling and backbiting all the more mischievously pleasing? The magic of the rumor comes from the perspective of the outsider—the onlooker, the narrator. Even the most clichéd and anticlimactic tale can be treated with zest and laced with enticing mystery when related by the crafty words of another. In the case of The Great Gatsby, widely considered one of the greatest novels ever crafted, we are faced with a relatively common—but nonetheless entertaining—storyline; of unquenched desire, greed, and romance. So then, what is it that makes this novel so wonderful? F. Scott Fitzgerald’s masterpiece The Great Gatsby is illuminated—its beauty at the same time mystified and magnified—by the narration of a bystander, an observer. The unique, uncharacteristically objective, and reverent perspective of our narrator Nick Carraway adds a tantalizing aroma of mystery and tension to the novel—it provides the je-ne-sais-quois that makes Gatsby’s protagonist so memorable and endearing.
The magnificent persona of Fitzgerald’s protagonist, Jay Gatsby, is insinuated to from the very title of the novel, which rounds out his character in the simple yet effective acclamation “great”. However, the audience is not personally introduced to him until several chapters into the book. Instead, Fitzgerald puts the job of aggrandizing Gatsby’s personality into the hands of the narrator of the novel, Nick Carraway. In the first chapter, Carraway looks back on his short, lackadaisical stay in an affluent establishment of New York—the short period in which Gatsby made an impression which lasted forever.
When I came back from the East last autumn…I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn for…there was something gorgeous about him…as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. (Fitzgerald, 2)
Here, Nick Carraway expresses his negative attitude towards his previous home—his intolerance for any more “riotous excursions” and scorn towards “privileged glimpses” into the ugly truth of human nature. However, while he conveys his sense of exasperation with the people and the experiences that he faced in this affluent neighborhood, he introduces the exception—the only one who was “exempt from my reaction”, the very Gatsby to whom the novel is named for. Carraway provides an enigmatic first glance at the protagonist; one just revealing enough to instill interest, but vague enough to raise probing inquiries. What is it about this Gatsby that makes him “gorgeous”? What characteristics about him make him reputable and memorable—“exempt” from Carraway’s general disapproval, even while representing “everything for which I have an unaffected scorn for”? Perhaps there is something about Gatsby, something original and endearing, which outshines and even beautifies his flaws. Perhaps Gatsby is one of those melancholy and romantic persons, maybe socially awkward and unintentionally insulting, but essentially innocuous. Our skilled storyteller even goes to make an extremely unique simile, comparing the protagonist to “one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away”—in effect, relating Gatsby to a seismometer. What exactly does this mean—is Gatsby skilled at detecting drama or trauma before it begins? Or is there something deeper to the comparison, something only to be deciphered after getting to know him better? Carraway’s baffling yet alluring initial introduction of the audience to Gatsby is ingenious; it makes the readers begin to bounce in their seats and exchange curious glances, makes them turn their ears intently towards the storyteller and begin a fluttering of speculated rumors.
While Carraway’s narration in the very first pages of Gatsby serves to stir up everything from far-fetched to constrained speculations, our raconteur begins to satisfy some of the violent curiosity in later chapters, when describing the sort of affluent and hedonistic lifestyle Gatsby appears to promote. Nick Carraway describes Gatsby’s weekend extravaganzas from the point of view of an amazed neighbor:
There was music from my neighbor’s [Gatsby’s] house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound…And on Mondays eight servants…toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. (Fitzgerald, 39)
In this passage, Carraway gives the audience a glimpse at Gatsby’s unfathomable wealth, the sheer aesthetic beauty of his household, and identifies the reason behind his general popularity. Everything about these gatherings seems grand, pleasurable, and expensive. The elegant “music” which Carraway hears throughout charming “summer nights”; the enticing and enchanting “blue gardens” which attract young men and women like “moths” to lamps—these characteristics bring about a sense of occult splendor. Carraway describes the exhilarating fun to these parties as he watches these excited people “taking in the sun on the hot sand of his beach” and enjoying themselves inside speedy “motor-boats”—everything, of course, bought and paid for by our own Mr. Gatsby. Carraway continues to describe with awe how Gatsby takes care of the physical repercussions of these parties—by handing the seemingly insurmountable task off to a team of eight servants who “toil all day” with every sort of gardening and cleaning tool to restore the household to the resplendence of the night before. What an impressive and prosperous man Gatsby displays himself to be—to both narrator, and transitively to the reader. Is Gatsby really as overindulgent and riotous as his parties make him seem to be? Now, the audience is about bursting with awe and overwhelming interest; Fitzgerald reluctantly decides to truncate his sadistic fun in building the anticipation and the mystery—it is time for Nick Carraway, time for the audience, to meet Gatsby. And it better be worth it.
Fitzgerald introduces Nick Carraway to Gatsby in a way that fulfills all expectations—surprising, satisfying, and not disappointing. They become acquainted at one of Gatsby’s opulent summer bashes, in which Nick enjoys himself alongside the company of his attractive lady-friend, Jordan Baker.
We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl, who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter…At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and smiled…We talked for a moment about some wet, gray little villages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity, for he told me that he had just bought a hydroplane, and was going to try it out in the morning. (Fitzgerald, 47)
At this point, the audience understands that Nick is beginning to feel acclimated to the party environment—he is even making his first friends in the neighborhood. Wealthy friends, at that— especially this man who happens to accompany Nick and Jordan at their table, who has enough money to indulge in entertainments like “hydroplanes”, and vacation in “wet, gray little” French villages. An impressive acquaintance, but what significance does he play to this story? Carraway continues his riveting narration, inquiring on the elusiveness of the host, Gatsby, and is dumbfounded by the response he receives:
“This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the host…and this man Gatsby sent over his chauffeur with an invitation.”
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to understand.
“I’m Gatsby,” he said suddenly.
“What!” I exclaimed. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
He smiled understandingly…It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. (Fitzgerald, 48)
Here, the reader gives a small yelp of surprise along with Carraway—what an excellent way to break the suspense and finally allow a physical first glance at the character so enhanced in the primary chapters of the book. The audience can feel the potential awkward tension after Gatsby “suddenly” announces who he is, and then allows itself to digest the situation forgivingly when Gatsby “smiled understandingly”. This dazzling, considerate turn of the mouth, strangely seems to represent everything Gatsby is portrayed as—someone who “you may come across four or five times in life”—someone inimitable and invaluable. This impression could not have been achieved had the point of view of the acquaintance been different—this creative form of storytelling is the key to the effectiveness in the building up and finally revealing Gatsby’s character.

With Armageddon approaching, global recession deepening, and natural disasters ripping apart the world in every sense of the word, depression and anxiety have embedded themselves deeply enough in all of us. What the people of today’s society need, over the dispiriting gloom provided in The Glass Menagerie, is the uplifting hilarity present in “For Whom the Southern Belle Tolls”. Durang’s “Belle” turns Tennessee Williams’ play Menagerie inside out, mocking and making light of the melodramatic, pathetic, and overall annoying characters found in the latter.
Part of what makes “Belle” so entertaining is its exaggeration of the feeble characters of its mother play. Take for example Laura, who is unbearably timid, crippled, and immature in her adoration of glass animals even at her post adolescent age. She makes these qualities most present during the last few scenes of the play, in which she is so shy that she cannot even muster the courage to open the front door.
“Laura: Oh, Mother—you answer the door!…Don’t make me do it!…
Amanda: Laura that is your brother and Mr. O’Connor! Will you let them in, darling?
…Laura: Please, please, please, you go!
…Amanda: Why?
Laura: I can’t, I’m sick!” (Williams, 56-57)” more…

When the word “hero” is addressed, the usual image which comes to mind often involves a tall, handsome, muscular figure with an outfit to match his chiseled abdomen, and majestic underpants pulled over his tights. Perhaps he is stopping a missile seconds before its imminent explosion, or rescuing a mangy cat from a tree. It is little expected, however, that in this scenario, the cat itself may be the actual hero. In Charles Bukowski’s unorthodox yet inspiring poem “The History of One Tough Mother—”, it becomes apparent that the greatest heroes are not always the ones who save lives and pummel criminals, but those who are able to save their own lives—survive—against all impossible odds. Such heroes do not need lavish praise and eloquence to raise them to the level of heroism—straightforward, grammatically flawed language is more than enough to inspire all of their incredible resolve.
Everything about the hero of Bukowski’s unconventional poem is unlikely—from his “one tough history” to his feline species. Generally speaking, cats are portrayed as solitary, slinky, and furtive—sometimes villains, but rarely heroes. At first, that is what the pitiful subject appears to be, a typical alley cat, as the narrator’s relation describes: “He came to the door one night wet thin beaten and/ terrorized/… [He] grew to trust me” (1, 2, 5). Here, the pathetic figure is introduced, and his tough façade is interrupted by his uncharacteristic trust. Perhaps the cat has finally found his long-awaited peace—until unexpectedly, fate’s cruelty falls upon him: “a friend drove up the driveway and ran him over” (5, 6). A turn of events occurs for the feeble cat—what may have been a chance at living pleasurably had backfired against him, and peace had been cruelly exchanged with anguish. But the means for his heroism—his incredible resilience and perseverance—are set in this accident. The seeds for inspiration are planted with his re-shattered backbone, wounded legs, and impossible situation. Instead of losing his trust for the narrator, as would be expected, the cat relies on the narrator to aid him through his circumstance. He inspires the narrator when—miraculously—manages to come to his feet one day, and stumble a few steps. And the rest, as Bukowski implies, is history: “You know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed/ almost toothless, but the grace is back…” (38-39). The cat had defied all expectations—he had been presumed almost dead, at best immobile, but had recovered nonetheless. His story inspired the alcoholic narrator’s creativity in his writing career, as well as every reader to come across his dazzling story.
Of course, the cat would be little, its fabricated story unheard of, if not for the literary merits of its creator. Its masterful qualities begin at the title—rebellious, mischievous, but extremely inviting. The very presence of a socially unacceptable word is what makes a reader gasp, glance around to ensure solitude, and begin to eagerly devour the piece. Miles apart from the harsh, bitter title, Bukowski also includes poignant visuals to capture the compassion and dedication of the narrator, such as in the premier stage of the cat’s recovery: “he wouldn’t eat, he/ wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it/ and wet his mouth…” (16-17). This image of gentle physical contact portrays love beneath the stolid, carefree surface of the narrator, and touches the reader with its endearing literary style. Bukowski also shows use of unique comparisons, as when the cat takes its first shaky steps to his bathroom: “it was like the trumpet of possible victory/blowing into that bathroom and into the city” (28, 29). In this simile, Bukowski comically compares sounds made while defecating to an anthem of success, emphasizing the importance of those few feeble steps.
What adds distinctiveness and uniqueness to the piece are unorthodox language which may be considered errors or flaws in writings not as carefully and masterfully crafted as Bukowski’s. Poetry generally contains a pleasing flow—with meter, rhythm, and occasionally rhymes. However, Bukowski’s poem contains none of this flowery nonsense, as displayed from the first few lines of the piece. “he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and/ terrorized/ a white cross-eyed tailless cat” (1-3). The very first word of the poem breaks a rule driven into use since the first years of literacy—the first word of the sentence is not capitalized. He disregards, as well, all commas, accepting that the reader is educated enough to comprehend the writing without them. The second line of the piece is a single word, adding emphasis to it, and exaggerating the pitiful appearance of the cat, whereas the first line is the opposite in length, increasing the pause between the first and second line, continuing to emphasize the attribute “terrorized”.
Heroes such as the epic cat of Charles Bukowski’s “A History of One Tough Mother—“ do not need lavish praise and eloquence to raise them to the level of heroism. Straightforward, grammatically flawed language is more than enough to inspire all of their incredible resolve. In this literary masterpiece, Bukowski creates the quintessence of miraculous resilience, and a portrait of inspiration.