I was on my lunch break when I first read of Jay Gatsby's death. This was in the back room of the Rockland Centre Sam the Record Man. Twenty-one, I was in charge of the singles department.
The description, as imagined by Nick, is so subtle that the tragedy passed without me seeing it. In my old Bantam edition it begins and ends on a single page. I returned to the beginning because I couldn't quite believe it.
I write about Canadian literature. The Great Gatsby is not a Canadian novel, but it but it is my favourite novel.
On this, the one hundredth anniversary of its publication, it is only right to recognize it.
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