Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for subscribing to Stacks. When I moved from New York City to Atlanta in 2020, I was eager to learn more about my new city’s literary scene. Writing this newsletter has made me realize that Atlanta’s book culture is vibrant and thriving, with events like the Decatur and Marcus Jewish Community Center book festivals, and new bookstores like Long Story Books on the horizon. It’s been a joy to bring this and more to your inbox every month.
Reading has always been a big part of my life. As a child, I fought in epic battles with Lord Voldemort with Harry Potter, traveled alongside Bilbo Baggins as he ventured into the unknown outside of the Shire, and fell in love with Gilbert Blythe in “Anne of Green Gables.”
Books shaped my childhood. I still vividly remember sitting with my mom in my bed as she read Charlotte’s Web aloud, tears streaking our faces as we finished the last page, and learning how much literature could make me feel. I’ve covered some of my favorites in reviews in the newsletter: “The Guest” by Emma Cline, “Hello Beautiful” by Ann Napolitano, and “Lies and Weddings” by Kevin Kwan are some of the most notable novels I’ve written about so far.
My latest obsession is “The Great Gatsby,” which celebrates its 100th anniversary this year.
I fell in love with Fitzgerald’s rich prose that captures the luxury and glamor of the roaring 20s, along with the pursuit of the American dream in the midst of deep class divides, all just in 180 pages. It was heartbreaking– Gatsby himself was driven by love and dreams rather than greed, and never fully accepted into the upper echelon society of New York or wins over Daisy, the girl of his dreams.
As graduation day approaches for the class of 2025 and me, the last passage keeps appearing in my head, the sense of melancholy that we all feel as we embark on the unknown.
Fitzgerald’s narrator Nick Carraway observes Long Island:
…and as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an æsthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
As I think about this turning point in our lives, I see that we, too, are like the sailors Carraway describes—not in the sense of being colonizers, but as explorers. We hold our breaths in the overwhelming grandness of the future ahead of us, our lives stretched out in an expanse of unknown terrain, a land bursting with dreams and possibilities.
We do not know what we might encounter, we only have our own capacity to wonder, to imagine. For me, high school has been my own safe haven, the familiarity of my friends, teachers, and community becoming what I imagine the Dutch Sailors saw as the “old world,” or the Netherlands. The structure of high school days, the feeling of unconditional acceptance and love from my friends and family, have been such a light guiding me through my childhood.
And I’m now realizing how comfortable and even dependent I have grown to this fact. And that scares me. Now, face to face with the uncertainty of the future, the task of building a new community for myself is daunting.
This passage is also immensely hopeful. Thinking of what the land the Dutch sailors encountered has become, the city of New York with its skyscrapers stretching towards the stars, and the plethora of people, cultures, and religions that have grown, thrived, and come to inhabit on that soil, makes me think of the infinite paths we might take.
The unending possibilities of what we can attain, experience, and enjoy. So, as we leave behind the world of the unknown, taking the skills and experiences we have received from our childhoods and from our time in high school, I hope we all look at the rolling hills of our future, the trees and fruitful landscape, and let ourselves wonder about the good we can make with our lives. To allow ourselves to feel fear, but also let our imaginations run wild.
As Fitzgerald teaches us, dreams are limitless, and we have “come a long way to this blue law,n and [our] dreams” are so close. I do hope and believe that we can grasp them.
I want to congratulate all of us who are embarking on new adventures this month!
– Eloisa