I wonder how many people in the world are reading The Great Gatsby this week. I finished my re-read last week. It was the first time I’ve read it since I pretended to read it in eleventh grade English. I mean, I tried. I’m sure I tried. I liked books in high school, liked them in college, but there was just something about the Required Reading book that turned me off. Now that I am a semi-professional reader and a grown-up adult, I can read in ways high school Jessica wasn’t interested in reading. I can read slowly, I can read for language and subtext rather than just plot, I can read stories that don’t fit my personal tastes without skimming, giving up, or pretending. I can read and enjoy books that at earlier points in my reading history, I didn’t enjoy. Like The Great Gatsby.

The book stays the same, but the reader changes. Eleven years since eleventh grade. I am no longer in school (FINALLY) and I get a lot of sleep: I can free up a little time to read that dense first chapter slowly and with care, properly orient myself to the book. I know more about the 1920s and have developed a bit of a soft spot for 20th century period fiction, so it’s not so foreign.

And most importantly, I realized that this book is 75% drunk people talking, partying, and cheating on one another. When I was in 11th grade, I had never been a drunk person nor encountered any in large groups. I have since attended a four-year state university. I am not sure that one can really grasp this novel without having encountered social groups bound by regular inebriation.

Eleven years later, I still don’t think I was picking up everything Fitzgerald was laying down. I’m sure it’s all symbols and metaphors and timeless commentary on high society, but high society is not exactly something I’m familiar with. Tonight, I made soup for dinner using a sauce pan without a handle. Not high class.

But will I watch a Baz Luhrmann movie about high society parties full of drunk people who love and hate and kill each other? Oh yes, yes I will.