The debate about what constitutes The Great American Novel is never-ending, yet F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" always finds its way into this conversation. It might be tempting to simply reduce the author's work to an enduring portrayal of the Roaring Twenties, but Fitzgerald's book also cuts through the illusions while sustaining the enthralling mystery surrounding its titular figure. Once the mist dissipates, and both Jay Gatsby and his (only) friend Nick Carraway are laid bare for who they are, what remains is a profound sense of emptiness. Don't get me wrong: "The Great Gatsby" is a story about the inherent hollowness of spectacle, obscene wealth, and relationships of convenience that have the illusion of depth. However, once we confront the rare flashes of moving sincerity in a tale so luridly tragic, the empty lure of the green light at the heart of the novel takes on a terribly haunting sheen.