Can one truly separate love and money? Not in America. And why would you want to, when Fitzgerald's flappers have so damn much of it? I won't insult anybody by summarizing the plot, I'll just point out that this is one novel whose beauty survives its relentless over-analysis in English classes. Who among you can't close your eyes and see Daisy on her wedding day, drunk in the bathtub, with her broken string of pearls and that soaked, wadded-up letter from her low-born lover?