Jordan Baker

Time for this good girl to go to bed.

Jordan is going to play in the tournament tomorrow, explained Daisy, over at Westchester.

Oh, you're Jordan Baker.

I knew now why her face

was familiar.

on buffet tables garnished with glistening hors d'oeuvres spiced baked hams crowded against salads of harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to a dark gold in the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was set up and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials so long forgotten that most of its female guests were too young to know one from another by seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived no thin five-piece affair but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums the last swimmers have come in from the beach now and are dressing upstairs the cars from new york are parked five deep in the drive and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair shorn in strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams of castile the bar is in full swing and floating grounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other's names the lights grow brighter as the

earth lurches away from the sun and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail

music and the opera of voices pitches a key higher laughter is easier minute by minute spilled with prodigality tipped out at a cheerful word the groups change more swiftly swell with new arrivals dissolve and form in the same breath already there are wanderers confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable become for a sharp joyous moment the centre of a group and then excited with triumph glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under the constantly changing light Suddenly one of these gypsies and trembling opal seizes a cocktail out of the air Dumps it down for courage and moving her hands like frisco dances out alone on the canvas platform a Momentary hush the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her And there's a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she's Gilda Gray's understudy from the follies The party has begun believe that on the first night i went to gatsby's house i was one of the few guests who had actually been invited people were not invited they went there they got into automobiles which bore them out to long island and somehow they ended up at gatsby's door once there they were introduced by somebody who knew gatsby and after that they conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with amusement parks sometimes they came and went without having met gadsby at all came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission i had been actually invited a chauffeur in a uniform of robin's egg blue crossed my lawn early that saturday morning with a surprisingly formal note from his employer the honor would be entirely gatsby's it said if i would attend his little party that night he had seen me several times and had intended to call on me long before but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it dressed up in white flannels i went over to his lawn a little after seven and wandered around rather ill at ease among swirls and eddies of people i didn't know though here and there was a face i'd noticed on the commuting train i was immediately struck by the number of young englishmen dotted about all well dressed all looking a little hungry and all talking in low earnest voices to solid and prosperous americans i was sure that they were selling something bonds or insurance or automobiles they were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key as soon as i arrived i made an attempt to find my host but the two or three people of whom i asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that i slunk off in the direction of the cocktail-table the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.

And, you know, I also was very excited to really kind of tease out the queer elements of The Great Gatsby because it's often considered by a lot of readers to be a queer novel, but just very queer coded.

There are these moments like with the way that Jordan Baker is written in the original and then also the way Nick is written.

And there was a version of the Robert Redford movie.

Like, I don't even know if Robert Redford was cast yet.

There may have just been a treatment for it.

And so it's like that was really that was really fun to kind of go back and be like, OK, this always felt like a queer story to me.

I think that that I think Jordan Baker for me was one of the reasons I loved it so much is that she's just this character.

You know, she's she's a professional golfer in a time when women athletes weren't as common as I think that they are now.

over at westchester

"'Oh, you're Jordan Baker!' I knew now why her face was familiar.

Its pleasing, contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many Rhoda Gravier pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach.

I had heard some story of her, too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

They were, at least, agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity, and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.

As soon as I had arrived, I made an attempt to find my host, but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table, the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.

i was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when jordan baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden welcome or not i found it necessary to attach myself to some one before i should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by hello i roared advancing toward her My voice seemed unnaturally loud across the garden.

"'I thought you might be here,' she responded absently as I came up.

And into their established, tightly wound orbit comes our narrator.

The boys nickname her Daisy initially, and then Jordan, which is a very loud, deliberate echo of Jordan Baker from The Great Gatsby.

Oh, absolutely.

The Fitzgerald reference is functioning on multiple levels there.

Because Jordan Baker in Gatsby is a cynic, right?

Exactly.

She's a watcher, someone who floats through the lives of the wealthy while maintaining this cool, detached veneer.

A completely unflappable observer.

For one author, Nick Carraway and his experience in the war is the center of the story.

For another, Jordan Baker offers an erotic and magical outlet to discuss the limits of what could have been.

Join us in this episode as we unravel the layers of Gatsby's enduring legacy and see how these contemporary adaptations reflect our ongoing fascination with Fitzgerald's story.

I'm sure there's more now, but as of kind of recording and what we decided to read for the podcast, there's three major graphic novel adaptations of The Great Gatsby.

So another adaptation that I read that did very

much focus on a queer reading of the novel and a queer reading of the characters was The Beautiful and the Chosen by Nivo, also released 2021.

And it is this very interesting adaptation told from the perspective of Jordan Baker.

who doesn't have too much of a role in the original novel, I would say.

Why would a young man plunge into this brutal underworld?

And the answer is delivered by Jordan Baker later that afternoon.

She explains the five-year quest.

She tells Nick the story of 1917 Louisville.

"'Time for this good girl to go to bed.' "'Jordan's going to play in the tournament to-morrow,' explained Daisy.

"'Over at Westchester.' "'Oh, you're Jordan Baker!' I knew now why her face was familiar.

Its pleasing, contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach.

I had heard some story of her, too, a

only place in the garden

where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.

I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.

Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.' "'Hello!' I roared, advancing toward her.

"Ten o'clock," she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling.

"Time for this good girl to go to bed." "Jordan's going to play in the tournament tomorrow," explained Daisy, "over at Westchester." "Oh—you're Jordan Baker." I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing, contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach.

I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I'd forgotten long ago.

"Good night," she said softly.

They were at least agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicinity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the right key.

As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host but the two or three people of whom I asked his whereabouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so vehemently any knowledge of his movements that I slunk off in the direction of the cocktail table, the only place in the garden where a single man could linger without looking purposeless and alone.

I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer embarrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little backward and looking with contemptuous interest down into the garden.

Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks to the passers-by.

Tom Buchanan, read by Larry Wilson.

Jordan Baker, read by Jen Broda.

Nick Carraway, read by TJ Burns.

Meyer Wolfsheim, read by Faust Szczesny.

"'Time for this good girl to go to bed.'"

"'Jordan's gonna play in a tournament tomorrow,' explained Daisy, "'over at Westchester.'"

"'Oh, you're Jordan Baker.' I knew now why her face was familiar.

Its pleasing, contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach.