I struggled to finish this book. It is laden with trivial charactersand the plot drags on endlessly while Fitzgerald keeps blindly grasping for the magic he had before he destroyed his mind with alcohol.
The writing in this novel is sloppy at best, and, as he confessed to his sometime-friend Ernest Hemingway (see Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast"), he often altered his writing for the sake of financial gain. This novel, which took over ten years to create, looks like the pained work of a man who has run out of gas. His focus was diverted by his alcoholism, his lust for financial success over artistry, and his wife's instability, and it shows.
The book drags on endlessly, and it looks like Fitzgerald is just trying to fill up pages (which he may have been, because Scribner wasn't happy with the much shorter length of The Great Gatsby).
Sure, there are a bunch of pretty sentences, and even a few unbelievable paragraphs scattered throughout, but good sentences don't make a good story, and they certainly don't overcome the weakness of these characters.