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The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald, portrays the Jazz Age and the people living during the time. The reader watches the unfortunate story of the mysterious Jay Gatsby and his love for Daisy Buchanan through the eyes of Nick Carraway. His semi-involved character witnesses the events unfold right in front of his eyes as he lives next door to Gatsby. Critics often regard this tale of love, betrayal, and immoral living an essential classic for all high-school students. The cover provides an excellent source of symbolism and insight into meaning of the novel.
The sad, hypnotic eyes of a woman shine through the night sky like two headlights. Inside the eyes, the irises appear as lounging nude women. A green tear streams down from the one eye and vivid red lips complete the face. No nose or other recognizable facial forms appear on this figure, but a few dark streaks behind the title suggest hairlines. Other dark lines resemble the outline of a street. Brightly colored lights glow on the ground beneath the visage. The cover art applies to many aspects of the story, specifically symbols and characters.
The eyes represent a direct reference to those of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg on the billboard in the city. Both sets of eyes seem eerily ominous, yet they also have a mystical quality about them, almost god-like in their appearance. The irises symbolize Gatsby’s sexuality and his views about Daisy. He watches Daisy with lustful eyes and the inner eye could signify his dreams about his future with her. Emerging from the center of the cover, the bright red lips suggest the sensuality of Daisy.
Dripping down the cheek of the face, a green tear stands out from the dark background. This tear represents several things. First, it stands for the sadness in the heart of characters in the novel, especially Gatsby and Daisy. A quote at the end of Chapter 1 best describes the alternate meaning for the tear. Nick finds Gatsby, trembling and staring at “a single green light, minute and faraway, that might have been on the end of a dock. “? The reader later finds that the green illumination sits on Daisy’s dock and Gatsby often returns to view this glow of light.
Moving to the bottom of the cover, the various flashes of light look almost like a carnival or amusement park. Nick refers to these lights when he approaches his home at the beginning of Chapter 5. He sees “the whole peninsula”¦blazing with light. “? The light comes from Gatsby’s house that appeared “lit from tower to cellar. “? Upon remarking about the house, Nick receives an offer from Gatsby to “go to Coney Island. “? These lights pictured on the cover resemble that of this New York amusement park.
Towards the bottom left edge, the drawing looks vaguely like a car, materializing out of the cluster of lights. Combining this with the street-like markings near the face, another symbol in this picture becomes evident. Gatsby’s car plays a large role in the symbolism of the novel. The car epitomizes the flamboyant nature of Gatsby and other rich people during this time period. After hitting and killing Myrtle Wilson, the car also typifies the arrogance of the wealthy towards the less fortunate. The accident destroys the car’s embodiment of wealth and happiness.
This also parallels Gatsby’s life and the revelation of the corrupt nature of his character. The book cover succeeds in depicting many symbols of important elements in the story. The mysteriousness of the picture plays on the reader’s mind while going through the book. Adding to the effectiveness of the symbols, it contributes to the quality of the novel in a way that most covers do not. It represents an unusual and unique collaboration between author and artist; one that needs to establish itself more frequently in order to maintain this extraordinary level of literature.
Author: Neal Farren
The Great Gatsby Cover Analysis
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Celestial Eyes � from Metamorphosis to Masterpiece
by Charles Scribner III
1. Francis Cugat�s jacket for The Great Gatsby. New York:
Charles Scribner�s Sons, 1925. First Edition Facsimile
published by Collectors Reprints, Inc., New York, 1988.
In my 1990 F. Scott Fitzgerald seminar at the University of South Carolina, I discussed the thematic connections between The Great Gatsby and its original dust jacket, mentioning the mystery of Francis Cugat (or F. Coradal-Cugat). Little is known about the artist responsible for the most eloquent jacket in American literary history: he was born in Spain in 1893 and raised in Cuba; he was brother of orchestra leader Xavier Cugat; he worked in Hollywood as a designer for Douglas Fairbanks; he had a one-man New York show in 1942; his death date is unknown. No other Cugat book jackets have been identified.
A student in my seminar, Martha Alston, mentioned the mystery to her visiting aunt and uncle, Evelyn and Harvey Kilby; they traced a collection of Cugat�s work to the Wilmington, Delaware, artist and restorer Roy Blankenship, who had acquired them from a Connecticut gallery. Mr. Blankenship permitted me to purchase the eight pieces I recognized as preceding the Gatsby jacket.�Matthew J. Bruccoli
Francis Cugat�s painting for F. Scott Fitzgerald�s The Great Gatsby is the most celebrated�and widely disseminated�jacket art in twentieth-century American literature, and perhaps of all time (fig. 1). After appearing on the first printing in 1925, it was revived more than a half-century later for the �Scribner Library� paperback edition in 1979; more than two decades (and several million copies) later it may be seen in classrooms of virtually every high school and college throughout the country. Like the novel it embellishes, this Art Deco tour-de-force has firmly established itself as a classic. At the same time, it represents a most unusual�in my view, unique�form of �collaboration� between author and jacket artist. Under normal circumstances, the artist illustrates a scene or motif conceived by the author; he lifts, as it were, his image from a page of the book. In this instance, however, the artist�s image preceded the finished manuscript and Fitzgerald actually maintained that he had �written it into� his book.1 But what precisely did he mean by this claim?
Cugat�s rendition is not illustrative, but symbolic, even iconic: the sad, hypnotic, heavily outlined eyes of a woman beam like headlights through a cobalt night sky. Their irises are transfigured into reclining female nudes. From one of the eyes streams a green luminescent tear; brightly rouged lips complete the sensual triangle. No nose or other discernable facial contours are introduced in this celestial visage; a few dark streaks across the sky (behind the title) suggest hairlines. Below, on earth, brightly colored carnival lights blaze before a metropolitan skyline.
It has been alleged that Fitzgerald�s symbolic billboard eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg derived from Cugat�s jacket. Fitzgerald describes them as �blue and gigantic�their retinas 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.� If this hypothetical source is valid, then we are clearly not dealing here with a literal translation from graphic imagery into prose: there can be no mistaking of Cugat�s seductive visage for the grotesque, bespectacled eyes of the optician�s billboard. Yet each is, in its own way, both ethereal and mystical; each is explicitly abstracted from a face, in each case with the nose �edited out.� As we would expect from a writer of Fitzgerald�s imagination, he thoroughly transforms his visual sources, or background images, into his own creation: that is to say, one symbol evolves into another.
To those who still find the derivation troublesome, an alternative has recently been proposed for Fitzgerald�s acknowledged debt to Cugat: Nick Carraway�s image of Daisy as the �girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs� of New York at night.2 This citation at the close of chapter four appears to correspond perfectly with the final jacket. But, at the same time, it raises the question of how far we may reasonably seek interrelations between the jacket art and the text of Gatsby. In other words, what did Cugat know of the novel before he illuminated its jacket; and what did the novelist know of Cugat�s artwork before he completed his manuscript? Fortunately, Matthew J. Bruccoli�s discovery of Cugat�s preparatory studies and sketches for the design sheds new light on these questions as well as on the creative evolution of his iconographic masterpiece.
In the editor-author correspondence between Maxwell Perkins and Fitzgerald there are several references to the Gatsby jacket art. These comments are more intriguing than clarifying. The first occurs on April 1, 1924: Perkins asks whether Fitzgerald has finally decided on a title for his new novel-in-progress so that Scribners might proceed to design a �wrap,� or jacket, in anticipation of its publication on Scribners� fall list. (Fitzgerald�s Ledger entry for that month begins �out of woods at last and starting novel.3) Six days later, Perkins writes that he does not like Fitzgerald�s proposed title �Among the Ash Heaps and Millionaires� although he likes the general idea it seeks to convey: �The weakness is in the words �Ash Heaps� which do not seem to me to be a sufficiently definite and concrete expression of that part of the idea.� This reaction evidently prompts either a phone call or a meeting, and is followed by Fitzgerald�s confessional letter of circa April 10th (�A few words more relative to our conversation this afternoon . . .�) in which he explains that he has �every hope + plan of finishing my novel in June� but that it may take �10 times that long.� In any event, the new novel will be �a consciously artistic achievement + must depend on that as the first books did not.� Perkins replies on the 16th: �The only thing is, that if we had a title which was likely, but by no means sure to be the title, we could prepare a cover and a wrap and hold them in readiness for use. In that way, we would gain several weeks if we should find that we were to have the book this fall. . . .�
On April 15th, Scott and Zelda decided to move to Europe. There is no further correspondence on the subject of a title or jacket art before they set sail in early May. The next written reference indicates a fait accompli; it appears in Fitzgerald�s long itemized letter sent from France sometime in August. (Perkins acknowledged it on the 27th, and it took at least ten days for mail to travel by sea from the Villa Marie in St. Raphael to the Scribner offices in New York.) Item one: �The novel will be done next week. That doesn�t mean however that it�ll reach America before October 1st as Zelda and I are contemplating a careful revision after a week�s complete rest.� Item six: �For Christs sake don�t give anyone that jacket you�re saving for me. I�ve written it into the book.� This seemingly straightforward request has provoked much speculation among scholars: what did he mean by �don�t give anyone�? That Perkins should keep it secret? But that would nullify the very purpose in commissioning such art in advance, which was�then as now�to create promotional materials. The answer is simpler, and may be deduced from the context, or sequence, of the correspondence between editor and author.
In a letter of July 15th Perkins writes: �I suppose it will be here in a month or six weeks. . . . In any case, your book could not now wisely be published this fall and the spring will be a good season with us because there is no other book of fiction that will have a large sale then. . . .� From these remarks, Fitzgerald must have inferred (correctly) that since his new novel had been taken off the �rush� list for fall 1924 and would not be published for at least another nine months, there was no longer a current need to have jacket art for its advance promotion. Perhaps he feared that Cugat�s artwork might therefore be given to another book�or perhaps even to Scribner�s Magazine, for which it would have made a striking poster�rather than being held in abeyance for several more months. Perkins immediately puts this worry to rest in his response of September 10th: �There is certainly not the slightest risk of our giving that jacket to anyone in the world but you. I wish the manuscript of the book would come, and I don�t doubt it is something very like the best American novel.� Two things are clear: that Perkins still had yet to read any of it, and that he would reserve for it the previously designed jacket art.
On October 27, Fitzgerald writes that he is finally sending The Great Gatsby. (He offers as an alternate title �Gold-hatted Gatsby.�) He follows up a week or so later with a letter in which he says that he has decided to retain his original title:
Trimalchio in West Egg. The only other titles that seem to fit it are Trimalchio and On the Road to West Egg. I had two others Gold-hatted Gatsby and The High-bouncing Lover but they seemed too light.On November 14th Perkins replies that none of his Scribner colleagues likes the �Trimalchio� title, and urges him to change it. Significantly, he adds: �But if you do not change, you will have to leave that note off the wrap. Its presence would injure it too much;�and good as the wrap always seemed, it now seems a masterpiece for this book.� Fitzgerald replies: �About the title. I�ll try my best but I don�t know what I can do. Maybe simply �Trimalchio� or �Gatsby.� In the former case I don�t see why the note shouldn�t go on the back.� Fitzgerald�s typescript no longer exists; but the first set of the proofs is slugged �Trimalchio� at the top of each galley. We can only guess at the length and content of the note explaining Trimalchio�s source in Petronius�s Satyricon. That ancient Roman host of extravagantly decadent feasts did indeed offer a worthy prototype for Fitzgerald�s Gatsby�but would readers or booksellers have been able to pronounce it, much less spell it?
Fitzgerald was never satisfied with the title The Great Gatsby. Yet when the first copy of the book arrived he wrote to Perkins that he �thought the new jacket was great.� No doubt this concise compliment conveyed not only his approval of all its elements�illustration, flap copy, typography, and back ad�but also something of an inside joke. To the author, it was �new� in so far as it incorporated for the first time an actual title, from which Fitzgerald quoted the adjective�perhaps with pointed irony, since he had earlier denigrated to Perkins its titular connection with Jay Gatsby: �The Great Gatsby is weak because there�s no emphasis even ironically on his greatness or lack of it. However, let it pass.�
Was the jacket �new� to Fitzgerald in other ways? The payment card in the Scribner art files confirms that Cugat designed only one jacket, for which he was paid one hundred dollars. If the original jacket painting that Perkins had promised to save for Fitzgerald had in fact been replaced by a new one, there would be some indication of it on the card, as well as the payment of an additional fee to the artist. It is inconceivable that Perkins would have allowed such a substitution without further comment to the author after his written promise and, equally important, after his declaring the original design �a masterpiece.� On the other hand, it is entirely conceivable that Fitzgerald had never seen Cugat�s final, finished artwork, the magnificent gouache painting today preserved in the Princeton University Library (fig. 10).
In the first (fig. 2), Cugat has rendered in charcoal and pen-and-ink, washed with watercolor and gouache, a scene of a train passing through a deserted depot amidst a bleak, grey landscape with distant hills. Over the green building at the far left a faint, crude image of a face emerges from the dark sky. Cugat proceeded to enlarge this sketch (fig. 3), altering some of the architecture, transforming the central track into an undulating curve, and adding two significant elements that leave no doubt as to the connection between this watercolor and Fitzgerald�s novel-in-progress. The red coal cars are lettered �Long Island Railroad,� and over this ashen scene float, like so many balloons, a series of sad feminine eyes and mouths�all without noses or other physiognomic features. Signed at the bottom right, this sheet clearly represents a modello, or demonstration piece, for the advance jacket and derives its conception from Fitzgerald�s originally proposed title, �Among the Ash Heaps and Millionaires.�
The next stage, a quick pencil and crayon sketch (fig. 4) adapts structural elements (rooflines, poles, automobile) from the �valley of ashes� watercolors, but the geography is unclear.
The focus on a single weeping eye links this rough draft with Cugat�s next, and innovative, conception of the jacket (fig. 5): the pencil and crayon drawing of the female countenance now reduced to one eye with parted red lips and viewed in profile�as he has noted on the sheet. The schematic tear falls into the Long Island Sound, with the New York skyline (labeled �cityscape�) in the background and five prominent pilings directly below. Cugat�s anatomical license is reminiscent of Egyptian hieroglyphics, if not Picasso. His invention�a beacon-like and beckoning eye of what Shakespeare called �the constant image� of the beloved�suggests an iconographic prefiguration of that �enchanted object� of Gatsby�s, the green light �of colossal significance� at the end of Daisy�s dock which had seemed as near to her �as the star to the moon.�
The next and penultimate version is rendered in pencil, crayon, charcoal and gouache (fig. 6). Cugat here returns to his original image of a celestial visage seen straight on.
Cugat�s carnival imagery is especially intriguing in view of Fitzgerald�s pervasive use of light motifs throughout his novel; specifically, in metaphors for the latter-day Trimalchio, whose parties were illuminated by �enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby�s enormous garden.� Nick sees �the whole corner of the peninsula . . . blazing with light� from Gatsby�s house �lit from tower to cellar.�
Daisy�s face, says Nick, was �sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth.�
On the art file card, there is a handwritten notation that Cugat�s gouache painting for Gatsby (mistakenly described as a watercolor: it does indeed look like one) was given to Fitzgerald on April 2, 1927. If so, he either gave it back to his publisher or left it behind when he returned home to Delaware, where he was struggling to make progress on the new novel that would become Tender Is the Night.5
Five days later, on April 7th, Perkins wrote: �I do not want to harass you about your book, which might be bad for it. But if we could by any possibility have the title, and some text, and enough of an idea to make an effective wrap, by the middle of April, we could get out a dummy. And even if all these things had to be changed, it would be worth doing this.� We come full circle. April is not always the cruelest month. Three years earlier, Fitzgerald had planted with Perkins �enough of an idea to make an effective wrap.� And reaped a unique visual harvest.
- The Fitzgerald-Perkins correspondence is preserved in the Charles Scribner�s Sons Archives at the Princeton University Library; most of the letters are published in J. Kuehl and J. R. Bryer, eds., Dear Scott/Dear Max (New York: Scribners, 1971). For a complete discussion of the composition and publication of the novel, see Matthew J. Bruccoli, ed., The Great Gatsby (London and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991). For biographical background, see Bruccoli, Some Sort of Epic Grandeur: The Life of F. Scott Fitzgerald, second revised edition (Columbia, University of South Carolina Press, 2002). Return to text.
- This observation was made to Professor Bruccoli by his student Mary Jo Tate. Return to text.
- Bruccoli, ed., Scott Fitzgerald�s Ledger (Washington: Bruccoli Clark/NCR Microcard Editions, 1973). Return to text.
- For an excellent analysis of light imagery and religious metaphors in Fitzgerald�s work, see Joan M. Allen, Candles and Carnival Lights: The Catholic Sensibility of F. Scott Fitzgerald (New York: NYU Press, 1978), especially pp. 93-116. Return to text.
- Decades later, my cousin George Schieffelin discovered the painting at Scribners in a trash can of publishing �dead matter� and preserved it for posterity. Eventually I inherited the painting, enjoyed it at home for several years, then donated it to Princeton University for its graphic arts collection. Return to text.
This article was originally published as a brochure designed by Micki L. Katz on 24 October 1991 by M.J.B., C.S. III and P.S. to celebrate the Cambridge Edition of The Great Gatsby.
This page updated December 6, 2003.
Copyright 2003, the Board of Trustees of the University of South Carolina.