| ...no one knows the woman's name... |
| In this novel, names are especially important. The
transformation from James Gatz to Jay Gatsby is perhaps one of the most
important aspect of the plotline. This name change is a rebirth
into a new life of materialism and riches. His new name gave him a new
life, a life in which he met Daisy and went from the poverty of the life
he left behind into the richness of New York. In the transition
from his name change, Gatsby made a physical movement from the mid-west
to the east.
The woman's lack of name gives her a lifelessness. Names create an individual, and without a name, this woman simply becomes part of a nameless mass. Without a name, she bears no special importance to anyone, as to why "no one cares". |
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Myrtle Wilson's Funeral- a fictional piece There was no one there the day Myrtle Wilson's torn and battered corpse was placed in the crumbled ground. A priest said his blessings for the lonely woman in her shabby oak casket, and then left. The grave differs casually tossed the casket into the poorly dug hole and hurriedly filled it. There were no mourners, no family, no lovers, so the two men did not take any care to respect this dead. It was a hot summer day in the late of August. One of the last of such days of the year. Hot and muggy, like the earth was straining itself out in its last ounce of effort. As it it was a marathon runner on the last quarter mile summing up that last burst of energy. The two grave diggers were not pleased to be working on such a day. They stood out in the sun, high at its peak in the sky. Beside the hole that they had dug stood the pile of dirt they were now required to put back in. Disgruntled and underpaid, the two men haphazardly tossed the dirt back into the hole and erected the tombstone. Then they left. It was not until the beginning of December that Tom, or anyone at all, came to visit Myrtle's grave. By that time, the tombstone had listed slightly, and its poor craftsmanship had caused the words "Wilson 1891-1925" to fade and crumble. But he felt no mourning for her. He stood there as a silent spectator of something he had yet to come to grips with, like a child attempting to comprehend the death of a family member. Deep within he still suffered from the loss, but there had never been any love for her, it had only been a passing lust. He left without saying a word and abandoned her to be buried in the soft snow that floated down from the tumultuous skies. |
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by chester winter |