WE’RE ALL GATSBY NOW—AND THAT’S A PROBLEM

100 Years Later, We’re Still Obsessed with Looking Rich, Feeling Empty, and Leaving People Out

Apr 09, 2025

The original 1925 cover of The Great Gatsby—haunting eyes hovering above a cityscape—symbolizes the novel’s blend of glamour and looming moral questions. One hundred years later, those eyes still watch over us.

I was 13 when I first read The Great Gatsby. Gatsby’s world of lavish parties, shimmering chandeliers, and wild jazz felt like pure fantasy—a Roaring Twenties fever dream. Yet even then, I sensed an uncanny resemblance between Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age revelers and the influencers I saw on Instagram flaunting vacation outfits. Now in 2025, as The Great Gatsby turns 100, I find myself reflecting on what this classic teaches us about today’s leisure class and consumerism. Great art is “timebound and timeless,” and, boy, Gatsby still has a lot to say to us in 2025.

In this THIRD SPACE entry, I’ll explore four key themes from Gatsby’s legacy—opulence, moral detachment (and that eerie billboard of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg’s eyes), the erasure of Black voices, and the parallels between Gatsby’s elite and today’s 1%. I’m approaching Gatsby’s centennial not just with admiration for Fitzgerald’s lyrical prose, but with a critical eye. What does it mean when a 1925 novel about excess and inequality still hits home a century later? Let’s dive into the champagne-soaked world of Gatsby and see what it reveals about our own.

The New Age of Opulence: From Gatsby’s Parties to Instagram Flexing

In The Great Gatsby, opulence isn’t just background—it’s the main attraction. F. Scott Fitzgerald famously conjures images of grand mansions and glittering parties in West Egg. Nick Carraway, Gatsby’s narrator, describes how

“in his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.”

That poetic line captures the intoxicating allure of Gatsby’s lifestyle: a nocturnal carousel of champagne, music, and beautiful strangers drawn to wealth like moths to a flame. Fitzgerald doesn’t celebrate this opulence so much as critique it—the beauty is “romantic but temporary,” destined to disappear with the harsh light of day.

Reading those party scenes today, I can’t help but picture the curated extravagance on social media feeds. Swap Gatsby’s Rolls-Royce for a Lamborghini and his orchestra for a DJ, and you have the template for every influencer mansion party on TikTok.

Our era’s “Roaring Twenties” revival is playing out in pixels: celebrity house tours, $10,000 sneaker collections, #LivingMyBestLife captions poolside. Just as Gatsby filled his closets with stacks of tailored shirts to impress Daisy—prompting her famous tears over “such beautiful shirts”—modern celebrities and influencers showcase walk-in closets the size of apartments. The theme of conspicuous consumption remains.

Sociologist Thorstein Veblen coined that exact term in 1899 to describe how elites display wealth for status, and Gatsby took it to heart. A century later, conspicuous consumption is a pillar of Instagram culture: expensive cars, luxury vacations, and limited-edition handbags are trotted out not just as personal pleasures, but as content.

Adriaen_van_Utrecht-_Vanitas_-_Still_Life_with_Bouquet_and_Skull 1642 — *Vanitas – Still Life with Bouquet and Skull*, Adriaen van Utrecht (1642)

What’s striking (and a little sad) is how performative today’s opulence can be. At least Gatsby genuinely owned his mansion and tailored shirts (even if his wealth came from shady business). In 2025, we’ve seen the rise of a “fake rich” industry enabling everyday people to project wealth they don’t have. Influencers can rent time in a private-jet photo set in LA for $64 an hour, snapping selfies that make it look like they’re flying first class.Others literally buy empty Gucci and Tiffany boxes to stage luxury shopping sprees.There’s an entire ecosystem of clout-chasing hacks: rent a mansion for a day, Photoshop yourself on a beach, borrow a sports car for a video. The absurdity is real. As VICE reported, some influencers have even paid to add their voice to stock videos of Lamborghinis and “stacks of cash,” trying to manifest a lifestyle through visual lies. If Jay Gatsby were alive now, would he bother earning millions at all, or just fake it till he makes it on social media?

The purpose behind Gatsby’s ostentatious displays and today’s influencer flexing is surprisingly similar: to be seen, to be desired, to belong. Gatsby threw those decadent parties not because he loved debauchery, but to attract the attention of one person—Daisy Buchanan. Today, people flaunt wealth online to attract followers and status (and yes, sometimes a specific person’s attention too). The tools have changed (champagne towers vs. Instagram stories), but the underlying drive is the same: using material excess to fill an emotional void. In Gatsby’s case, the void was lost love. In ours, it might be validation, fame, or the promise of happiness via “likes.”

Of course, Fitzgerald knew the glitter was only surface-deep. Amid the silks and champagne, he weaves a sense of hollowness. Nick Carraway becomes disillusioned by the “carefree hedonism” around him, noting how empty and impersonal these lavish gatherings really are. By the novel’s end, Nick realizes that none of the partygoers truly care about Gatsby; when tragedy strikes, they vanish, leaving only “dust” and disillusionment. This is one of Gatsby’s harshest lessons: money can buy a crowd, but not true community or love.

It’s a lesson worth repeating in 2025. Today’s culture often equates wealth with success and excess with joy – think about how we idolize billionaires or reality stars living in mansions. But as I scroll past yet another TikTok penthouse tour, I try to remember Gatsby’s shirts and Daisy’s tears. She wasn’t really crying because of the fabric, right? She cried because those shirts represented years of longing and what might have been, the emotional weight behind the wealth. Our generation might not sob into closets of couture, but we should ask: what desires or insecurities hide behind our own displays of luxury? When I see a YouTuber pose with a rented Ferrari, I wonder what green light they’re reaching for on the other side of the bay.

Eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg: From God’s Gaze to the Age of Surveillance

One of the most haunting symbols in The Great Gatsby is a dilapidated billboard in the Valley of Ashes, featuring a pair of disembodied eyes peering through yellow spectacles. These are the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg, an eye doctor whose giant advertisement looms over the gray industrial wasteland between West Egg and Manhattan. Fitzgerald introduces the sign in almost mystical terms: “The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles…his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground…”. It’s an unsettling image – a huge, fading set of eyes with no face, watching over a land of ashes and poverty.

The Eyes of Doctor T.J Eckleburg – Here — Luhrmann, Baz *The Great Gatsby,* 2013

For the characters, those eyes take on a moral weight. In the climactic chapters, George Wilson, reeling from his wife Myrtle’s infidelity and death, stares at Dr. Eckleburg’s billboard and murmurs “God sees everything.” Wilson tells Myrtle, “You may fool me, but you can’t fool God,” while looking at that eerie sign. To him, the eyes represent the all-seeing judgement of God witnessing the moral decay around them.

Nick observes Wilson gazing at the billboard in a daze as he repeats, “God sees everything,” only for another character to dryly reply, “That’s an advertisement”. Ouch. In that moment, Fitzgerald delivers a bleak message: the moral compass (God’s gaze) in this modern world has been reduced to a faded ad on a crumbling billboard. It’s not truly watching over anyone; it’s just there, a vestige of someone’s abandoned ambitions, blind and judgement-free.

What do we take from Dr. Eckleburg’s ghostly eyes today? Many have interpreted the eyes as symbolizing the loss of spiritual values in pursuit of materialism – with even God’s gaze commercialized and ineffectual. In the 1920s context, it hinted that the characters, especially the wealthy like Tom and Daisy, acted with impunity. Indeed, Fitzgerald shows us how the rich behave when they think no real God or consequence is watching. After Daisy accidentally kills Myrtle with Gatsby’s car, she and Tom skip town, leaving Gatsby (and Wilson and Myrtle) to deal with the fallout. Nick bitterly notes that the Buchanans were “careless people” who “smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness.” It’s one of the most damning lines in the book: the leisure class so insulated by privilege that they feel no remorse, no responsibility. The eyes of Dr. Eckleburg might as well be blind. The wealthy characters have moral detachment down to an art.

Fast forward to 2025, and ask: who are the Eckleburg eyes of our era? One could argue we live under more literal watchful eyes than ever—security cameras on every street, satellites, smartphones recording our moves, algorithms tracking our clicks. We have an almost panopticon-like digital presence; surveillance is modern life's constant. But does all this watching equate to moral oversight? Not really. If anything, it’s often the opposite: those in power harness surveillance for profit or control, not to enforce ethical behavior. Corporations watch us to sell us stuff (the billboard has come to life as targeted ads following us around online). Governments watch in the name of security. And we, the public, watch each other on social media, judging and commenting. But are we any closer to justice or accountability?

Sometimes, yes—social media scrutiny can ignite accountability (for instance, videos of injustices have spurred real-world movements). But often the richest and most powerful still evade consequence, hiding behind PR teams and NDAs much like Tom and Daisy hid behind their money. Consider how many billionaires and celebrities manage to “retreat back into their money” after public scandals, rarely facing true punishment. In the 1920s, Daisy literally let Gatsby take the blame for her deadly mistake. In 2025, a tech CEO might let a low-level employee take the fall for corporate wrongdoing. The pattern of the privileged shirking responsibility persists. The eyes are watching, but accountability is not guaranteed.

There’s also a parallel in how we depict the American Dream today. Gatsby believed in the green light—the idea that he could achieve his dream of love and acceptance through sheer wealth and willpower. Dr. Eckleburg’s eyes, gazing over the desolate ash heaps, are a cynical counterpoint to that dream: perhaps no one up there is caring or validating your struggle. In 2025, many are questioning the myth of the American Dream in a similar way. After decades of rising inequality, the promise that “anyone can make it if they try” feels, to some, like a fading billboard itself.

Real wages for the working class have stagnated while the rich get richer. We’re living in an era where the top 0.1% of U.S. households own almost as much wealth as they did in Fitzgerald’s time – their share of national wealth has tripled since the mid-20th century (from about 3% in 1960 to nearly 9% by 2020). That suggests the new leisure class is as distant from the rest of us as Tom and Daisy were from Wilson, the poor garage owner.

So, who “sees” the plight of folks struggling in the Valley of Ashes today? One could hope that a more socially conscious society, armed with information, would play the role of moral witness. Sometimes I think of all the citizen journalists and activists using their cameras and platforms to demand justice as a modern Dr. Eckleburg—eyes forcing us to confront uncomfortable truths. Other times, though, it feels like we’re all Michaelis (the guy who tells Wilson, “That’s an advertisement”), quick to look away or rationalize injustice. Surveillance is everywhere, yet moral oversight feels nowhere. It’s a paradox of our age.

Fitzgerald’s symbol of the brooding eyes with no real power resonates in our daily scroll past news of another outrage or another opulent distraction. Are we truly seeing what matters, or have we become spectators nodding in the twilight, believing some higher authority is keeping score when in reality it might just be an unmanned camera? Gatsby’s lesson here is sobering: don’t assume justice is automatic or that prosperity equals virtue. In the novel, no divine force saves the good or punishes the evil; only human intervention could, and it largely doesn’t happen. Today, if we want accountability from the leisure class or anyone, it will take real-world action—those eyes on the billboard won’t do it for us.

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Left Off the Guest List

One of the hardest things about reading The Great Gatsby as a Black girl was realizing who’s not there. The book is packed with Long Island estates, lavish parties, and jazz playing in the background—but Black people? Nearly invisible.

There’s a brief, unsettling scene where Nick and Gatsby pass a Black trio chauffeured by a white driver. Nick laughs, describing the men as “bucks” and mimicking minstrel-like imagery. That’s it—that’s the extent of Black presence in a book set in 1920s New York, the same era that birthed the Harlem Renaissance just a few subway stops uptown. While Gatsby’s world partied to jazz, the very artists who created it—Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington—are nowhere to be found.

This absence isn’t just a historical blind spot; it reflects a broader pattern of exclusion in American literature and elite life. Tom Buchanan openly spews racist nonsense about the “white race” being submerged, yet the story’s critique of race ends there. Even as Fitzgerald exposes class hypocrisy, he largely reinforces whiteness as the norm.

Today, writers are reimagining Gatsby through more inclusive lenses—like Nghi Vo’s The Chosen and the Beautiful, or speculative theories about Gatsby “passing” as white. These revisions matter. Because even in 2025, the leisure class is still disproportionately white, and the racial wealth gap—Black families holding just one-tenth the wealth of white families—hasn’t budged much in a century.

Fitzgerald didn’t invent exclusion. But his silence mirrors a long tradition of erasing Black life from narratives about American success. To move forward, we need to see who’s been left out of the dream—and write them back in.

Gatsby’s Heirs: The Leisure Class of Today and Its Discontents

The world of The Great Gatsby is often described as a portrait of the American leisure class in the 1920s – those with money to burn and time to kill. A hundred years later, America still has a leisure class, though it looks a bit different (no spats and flapper dresses, more Patagonia vests and Instagram influencers). What hasn’t changed is how that class operates in terms of privilege, visibility, and insularity. In many ways, today’s ultra-rich are Gatsby’s heirs. Let’s compare their worlds and see what’s changed or stubbornly stayed the same.

First, consider the basic economic reality: wealth inequality is again at roaring twenties levels. The 1920s were a time of extreme inequality – in fact, historians note it was one of the worst decades for wealth gap, until maybe now. In our time, the rich have pulled dramatically ahead. The wealthiest 1% in the U.S. own about one-third of the country’s wealth, and the top 10% own over two-thirds.

The places where the rich congregate – be it Manhattan, the Bay Area, or Hamptons-esque enclaves – have become dramatically richer than poor regions, with disparities doubling over recent decades. It’s reminiscent of Fitzgerald’s Long Island versus the Valley of Ashes: gleaming Eggs versus soot-covered poverty down the road. Our “Valley of Ashes” might be the neglected inner cities, the deindustrialized towns, or even developing nations that our global elite can ignore while they rocket off to space (literally, in the case of some billionaires).

Fitzgerald’s leisure class was characterized by visibility – think of how Daisy and Jordan languidly lounge in white dresses at the Buchanans’ mansion, seen as the pinnacle of grace, while others are largely invisible. Today’s leisure class is hyper-visible in media (we track every brand trip), yet the actual operations of power (boardroom decisions, political lobbying) often happen out of sight. In Gatsby’s day, old-money families like the Buchanans wielded influence quietly, maintaining a façade of respectability and staying out of tabloids (well, 1920s equivalent). New-money figures like Gatsby made a splash but were still shut out of the inner circle of “respectable” society.

Now, the lines between old and new money have blurred – tech moguls and hedge funders might have as much clout as aristocratic dynasties – but the ethos of exclusivity remains. The leisure class still gathers in proverbial “East Eggs” (gated communities, invite-only retreats like Davos or Sun Valley). They still often marry among themselves, educate their kids at the same elite schools, and perpetuate their status. As a Harvard student, I see some of this up close: I have classmates whose last names grace building facades, whose family legacies span generations of privilege. It’s giving me real-life insight into how an Ivy League in 2025 can echo the social registry of Gatsby’s 1920s – some of us are scrambling up from modest backgrounds (Nick Carraway), while others stroll in with a trust fund safety net (the Daisy and Tom crowd).

One strong parallel between Gatsby’s leisure class and today’s is their relationship with accountability. We discussed how Tom and Daisy caused chaos and then simply “retreated back into their money”, leaving others to clean up. Do we see modern analogs? Absolutely. Think of the 2008 financial crisis: plenty of Wall Street high-flyers made reckless decisions that hurt millions, yet very few faced serious consequences – many were bailed out, bonuses intact. They effectively smashed up the economy and then let the public (through government bailouts) mop up the mess. Afterward, they went on with their lives, wealth largely undented, much like the Buchanans skipping town after the accident. We see it in celebrity culture too: a famous actor or singer can do something that would ruin a regular person’s life, but with good lawyers and PR, they’re performing at an awards show a year later. The rich often (not always) live by different rules. Fitzgerald captured that entitlement succinctly, and it stings to realize how little has changed.

Another comparison: glamor and its underside. Gatsby’s parties were dazzling on the surface, miserable underneath. Today’s leisure class presents a glamorous front – the insane Met Gala costumes, the lavish destination weddings on Instagram – but behind that often lies anxiety, competition, and moral vacuity. Take influencer culture: outwardly all champagne and smiles, inwardly a hotbed of burnout and “faking it.”

Or consider the uber-rich families depicted in HBO’s Succession (which, while fictional, resonates because it’s rooted in truth): they have obscene wealth, but their lives are a toxic mess of power struggles and emptiness. That show often reminds me of Gatsby; the Roy family (media moguls) and their ilk are basically what the Buchanans’ descendants might be like in the 21st century, clinging to power, ravaging the “peasants” (figuratively), and never finding real happiness. There’s even a telling line in Succession about a character who “never saw a real classroom until college” because the rich live in a bubble – that insularity is exactly what Fitzgerald portrayed with Daisy’s sheltered worldview.

One thing that has changed: social consciousness. There’s a stronger critique of the leisure class now from the outside and even the inside. In the 1920s, you had some social critics and leftist movements, but mainstream culture largely glamourized the rich (Fitzgerald himself was called the laureate of the Jazz Age, capturing its allure). Today, while we do glamourize the rich, we also love to critique them.

The fact that I’m writing this piece – that THIRD SPACE exists as a platform for critical cultural commentary by a 20-year-old Black woman – shows progress in whose voices get to analyze society. Movements like Occupy Wall Street, campaigns for higher taxes on the wealthy, the popularity of phrases like “eat the rich” among Gen Z online – all indicate a growing impatience with unfettered wealth. People are questioning the morality of billionaires existing alongside extreme poverty. Fitzgerald hinted at it but in a subtle way through story. Now, the dialogue is louder and more direct. Even some of the rich themselves philanthropize or speak on inequality (though whether that’s sincere or PR is case-by-case).

When I think about leisure, I also think about who gets leisure. In Gatsby’s era, leisure was a mark of class – the rich played, the poor labored. Today, the hustle culture has ironically made even the rich appear busy (CEOs brag about working 80-hour weeks), but ultimately, true leisure – the freedom not to have to work – still belongs to those with wealth.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, for example, we saw a stark divide: the well-off could work from home in comfort or escape to vacation homes, while essential workers (often lower-income) risked their lives to keep society running. It was a modern Valley of Ashes moment. The “watchers” (wealthy remote workers) peered out from behind their screens while the less privileged toiled in the physical world of virus and hazard – not unlike the rich in Gatsby speeding by Wilson’s dusty garage, barely noticing his hardship except when they needed gas.

Ultimately, comparing Gatsby’s world to 2025’s isn’t just an academic exercise for me – it’s personal and political. It forces me to ask: If we’re still seeing the same patterns after a century, what will it take to change? Gatsby’s tragic end was in part because the system was rigged – he could accumulate money, but he couldn’t break into the established elite or win the moral approval of that world. Today, we pride ourselves on being more meritocratic in theory, but in practice social mobility is stalling. Studies show it’s getting harder for people born in the lower ranks to climb to the top in the U.S. (we’ve even fallen behind some other countries in that regard).

The American Dream has become, for many, a treadmill – running in place rather than moving up. Fitzgerald sensed that hollowness a long time ago:

Nick muses on how Gatsby’s dream was already behind him somehow, that “you can’t repeat the past” – but Gatsby obstinately replies, “Why of course you can!” That tension between hopeful aspiration and harsh reality defines both the novel and our social landscape now.

As a society, we’re at a juncture where the mythology of endless upward mobility is being questioned just as fervently as it was in Gatsby’s time, if not more. And we’re also reckoning with the exclusionary nature of that dream. Who gets to be Gatsby? Who gets to be Daisy? And who is consigned to be Wilson, watching from the sidelines or used as a stepping stone? These are questions we can’t afford to ignore, and thankfully, I see many young people demanding answers and change – whether it’s via activism for economic justice, or creating art that reimagines stories like Gatsby to include the once-erased.

Wrapping Up: Rewriting the American Dream at 100

In one of the most famous closing lines in literature, Fitzgerald wrote: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” That poetic finale finds Nick Carraway reflecting on how Gatsby’s grand effort to transcend his past was ultimately in vain – the currents of history and social structure pulled him back. Here we are in 2025, 100 years after The Great Gatsby was published, and those currents are still strong. The leisure class still sparkles on the surface and often rots underneath. Consumerism still seduces us with its “iridescence”even as it leaves many unfulfilled. Marginalized voices still fight to be heard in the grand narrative of the American Dream. In some ways, it can feel like we’re rowing in place, history repeating like a looped jazz refrain.

But as a member of a generation that’s inheriting this world, I don’t accept that we are forever bound to drift “back into the past.” I believe we can learn from Gatsby’s story – the good, the bad, and the ugly – to chart a new course. Fitzgerald held up a mirror to the Gilded Age excess of his time and revealed the cracks in the American Dream. Now it’s on us to decide what to do with that reflection.

(1) We can challenge the worship of opulence. Enjoying nice things isn’t a sin, but valuing people only by their wealth is a mistake as tragic as Gatsby’s obsession with winning Daisy through status. Let’s celebrate different kinds of success: kindness, creativity, community impact – those matter far more than a garage full of supercars. Social media tends to glamorize wealth for wealth’s sake; we as consumers of culture can uplift content and role models that showcase substance over sparkle. Remember, Gatsby’s magic wasn’t really his riches – it was his hope, his capacity for wonder (even Nick admired that about him). We can all practice a bit more wonder about the non-material joys of life.

(2) We must hold our modern Buchanans accountable. Whether it’s pushing for policy changes like more progressive taxes, closing loopholes, or simply not letting social elites off the hook when they harm others, we have to be the eyes that don’t dim. Unlike Dr. Eckleburg’s billboard, we can act on what we witness. In a democracy, money shouldn’t equal immunity. That means supporting movements and leaders who seek justice and equality. It means not being distracted by the glitz to the point that we ignore the “valley of ashes” in our midst. When I think of Tom and Daisy, I think of all the damage done by people who never face consequences – and I feel a resolve not to let that cycle continue unchallenged.

(3) We should amplify the voices Gatsby left out. The centennial of The Great Gatsby is the perfect occasion to uplift stories by and about those whom Fitzgerald’s novel sidelined: Black Americans, other people of color, women with agency beyond being idealized or vilified, working-class heroes and heroines. The American Dream belongs to all of us, not just the Jay Gatsbys and Daisy Buchanans. We need more narratives in every space reflecting a truly inclusive American life tapestry. Representation isn’t a token gesture; it’s a necessary re-weaving of our national story. When more people see themselves in literature and media, it expands our collective imagination of who has worth and who can aspire to what. It’s like adding more boats to the current – maybe together we can change its direction.

Finally, I take Gatsby’s saga as a caution against confusing having more with being more. Gatsby surrounded himself with luxury to prove his worth, but in the end, it was his genuine qualities – his hope, his willingness to dream – that made Nick say Gatsby was “worth the whole damn bunch put together.” Perhaps if Gatsby had lived, he would have eventually realized that and found a new path. We have the chance, in real life, to not let our society’s values be hollow. A century after Gatsby, we can redefine the American Dream from one of pure material success to one of equitable, sustainable, and shared prosperity. That means dreaming of a world where leisure doesn’t belong to a tiny class, but where everyone has the dignity of rest, and where “making it” doesn’t require leaving others behind.

As I close this reflection of my voice – a voice that wouldn’t have appeared in a 1925 novel, but is here now, loud and clear – I invite you to carry Gatsby’s lessons forward. Enjoy the champagne and parties of life when they come, but don’t lose sight of who’s not at the table and why. Question the billboards that claim to be eyes of authority – ask who put them there and who benefits from our belief in them. Be willing to let go of romantic illusions (as Nick and even Daisy had to) in favor of confronting reality, because only by doing so can we change that reality.

100 years of The Great Gatsby teaches us that glitter is not gold, that unchecked privilege breeds carelessness, and that some dreams, if built on inequality, are destined to fail. But it also teaches us the power of hope. Gatsby’s grand dream, misguided as it was, sprang from an innocent belief in a better life. If we can harness even a fraction of that hope – and direct it not just to personal gain but to collective uplift – we might write a sequel to the American Dream that even Fitzgerald would be surprised and moved to read.

So we beat on… but not hopelessly. We beat on with awareness in our minds, inclusion in our hearts, and the determination that the next 100 years will bring a tide that lifts all boats.

That is a dream worth chasing, old sport.

Until next time,

Marley