The Outsiders

The outsider always pays. In every era, in every power structure, those who are not born into privilege are lured with the promise of access, only to be discarded when their usefulness has run its course. Jay Gatsby throws lavish parties in the hope that Daisy will validate his existence, but she never truly sees him. Oliver Quick believes he can make himself indispensable to the Catton family, but they treat him as an amusing pet until the moment he overstays his welcome. Jakob Paul von Gundling, an intellectual among Prussian elites, was never respected—only tolerated, laughed at, and buried in a wine barrel as a final act of contempt. The ruling class has always played this game. It is a slow con, one that relies not on force, but on the illusion that outsiders can cross the threshold if they only try hard enough.

The modern world is no different. The American Dream, the myth of meritocracy, the promise that hard work leads to success—these are simply newer, shinier versions of Gatsby’s green light. But the hard work dream is not just about money. It is the promise of legitimacy, of acceptance into a world that does not truly want to expand. The ruling class does not just hoard wealth and power; it manipulates the very notion of opportunity. The outsider is always reaching, always hustling, always trying to earn a seat at a table that was never set for them. The moment they believe they are close, the rules change. Access is granted, but belonging is withheld. Inclusion is offered, but only on the terms of those already in control. The ruling elite do not absorb outsiders. They let them orbit, bask in the glow, feel the warmth of proximity—only to cast them back out when the illusion has served its purpose.

Gatsby believes money will be enough, that wealth will erase the past. But money alone does not grant belonging. The people he longs to impress, the old-money aristocrats who move through the world without effort, see him for what he is: desperate, reaching, trying too hard. They indulge in his parties, drink his champagne, and disappear when he needs them most. He is tolerated, not respected. The moment his presence is no longer entertaining, he is forgotten.

Ripley, in contrast, does not just chase wealth—he assumes it like a second skin. He does not try to enter the elite world as himself; he becomes what he covets. But even he cannot erase the fear that one day, the illusion will shatter. He may succeed in replacing those he envied, but he can never stop looking over his shoulder. The game never ends. The outsider, no matter how clever, no matter how resourceful, is always in danger of being exposed.

Oliver, reckless and bitter, understands the game and chooses a different path. If he cannot be one of them, he will take them apart from the inside. If they refuse to see him as an equal, he will ensure there is nothing left for them to see. He is the natural counter to Gatsby’s tragedy—one who does not wait to be discarded but instead strikes first. And yet, even Oliver is reacting within the confines of the game. The ruling class remains intact, its machinery undisturbed.

This is the dynamic that plays out again and again in our world. The working class is fed a steady diet of stories about self-made billionaires, about grit and perseverance, about pulling oneself up by the bootstraps. But the reality is different. The wealthiest families do not rise through sheer determination. They inherit wealth, connections, and a safety net that ensures they never truly fall. Corporations dangle promotions and career ladders, but only for those who know how to play the game without disrupting the balance. Higher education, long touted as the great equalizer, remains an elite sorting mechanism where legacy admissions, networking, and generational privilege matter more than intelligence or effort. The gig economy promises freedom but delivers exhaustion. People are granted access to opportunity, but not to security. They are allowed to participate, but never to control.

The ruling class has perfected the art of making exploitation look like generosity. Billionaires engage in high-profile philanthropy, but their giving is designed to reinforce their status, not to challenge the structures that created their wealth. The corporations that offer mental health resources and diversity initiatives do so not to empower workers, but to pacify them, to prevent rebellion without offering real change. Even government aid is structured to humiliate, to make the process of receiving help so degrading that many give up before they begin. This is the same game played by the Cattons in Saltburn, the same mockery endured by von Gundling, the same cruelty that left Gatsby dead in his own pool. The kindness of the powerful is a tool of control, not of compassion.

And when the final reckoning comes, the outsider is the one left to pay. When the economy collapses, it is the working class that loses their homes, their jobs, their futures, while the wealthy escape unscathed. When climate change accelerates, it is the poor who suffer first, while the elite retreat to safer ground, untouched by the destruction they helped create. When war breaks out, it is not the rich who fight and die, but the young, the poor, the expendable. This is the great dash and dine of the modern ruling class. They extract, they indulge, they take what they need—and when the bill arrives, they are already gone.

This is why Gatsby’s death is inevitable. He was always reaching for something that was never his to have. He mistook indulgence for acceptance, proximity for belonging. He believed, even to the end, that Daisy might come back, that love might validate him, that he could rewrite the past. But the past does not rewrite itself. The ruling class does not extend invitations out of goodwill. The moment he ceased to entertain, the moment he became an inconvenience, he was discarded.

The only difference between Gatsby and Oliver Quick is that Oliver refuses to be discarded. If he cannot have a seat at the table, he will burn the house down. Some, however, see the con for what it is. Malcolm X, who once believed in the promise of integration, came to recognize that the system was not broken—it was built to exclude. His shift from assimilation to radical self-determination reflected an understanding that true change could not come from within. Audre Lorde, too, warned that "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house," recognizing that the structures of power were designed to keep the oppressed striving but never succeeding. They understood what Gatsby never did: the system does not fail outsiders; it functions exactly as intended.

The only real power the outsider has is the power to stop believing in the illusion. To see the game for what it is. The ruling elite do not share power. They allow outsiders just close enough to believe they have a chance, but never close enough to truly belong. They make charity look like kindness while ensuring dependency, not empowerment. And when the moment of reckoning arrives, they are already onto the next opportunity, leaving the rest behind to clean up the wreckage.

The modern world is not built to reward those who strive; it is built to keep them striving. The real tragedy of Gatsby, of Ripley, of Oliver, is not that they wanted too much—it is that they believed too long. The system does not break for those who work harder. It does not open for those who sacrifice more. It only sustains itself by keeping the outsider desperate, hungry, chasing a dream that was never meant for them.