Here’s my revelation about The Great Gatsby, on the third or fourth rereading of it:
This is realism written like surrealism. It’s so alive to strangeness, but what’s strange about it is nothing beyond the realm of possibility, not even anything particularly out of the ordinary (OK, well, with the exception of the extreme extravagance). And yet it’s so, so weird. There’s nothing perfunctory about this, nothing taken for granted, no obligation to comply to the drudgery of expected interactions. Everything is highly idiosyncratic, and that’s what makes it seem real, but also what makes it seem unreal at the same time.
I know everybody loves this book, but, man, I love this book.