Tag: Francis Cugat

The eyes have it

Wednesday, 15 April, 2015 0 Comments

The Great Gatsby turned 90 last Friday and the publisher has reissued a commemorative edition with that famous jacket art by the Catalan artist Francis Cugat, for which he was paid the grand sum of $100. Those two melancholy eyes and the red lips in the blue of the night sky, hovering above a glowing skyline, evoke the glamour and sorrow that are central to the story.

In a letter to his editor, Max Perkins, Fitzgerald requested that Cugat’s art be retained exclusively for the novel. “For Christ’s sake don’t give anyone that jacket you’re saving for me,” he wrote, “I’ve written it into the book.” What exactly Fitzgerald meant by this is not clear, but it might be that Cugat’s image reflected the billboard for Dr. T.J. Eckleburg that watches over one of the key moments in the novel:

The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic — their irises are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens, and then sank down himself into eternal blindness, or forgot them and moved away.”

The Great Gatsby

Tomorrow, here, the Ella Fitzgerald connection.


The prose poetry of Gatsby

Tuesday, 14 April, 2015 0 Comments

Is there one superfluous word in this passage? Yes, you could cut a few, perhaps, but the result would not be better than the original. Here be the silver pepper of poetry and prose with frogs blown full of life by the bellows of the earth:

“Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone — fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.”

Tomorrow, here, that famous cover by an almost forgotten Catalan artist.