Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby . Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. txt Language: English Date first posted: January Date most Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my. The Great Gatsby To the best of our knowledge, the text of this work is in the “ Public Domain” in Australia. HOWEVER, copyright law varies in other countries.

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The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald fitzgerald/f_scott/gatsby/ Last updated Sunday, March 27, at. The ways Fitzgerald drew on New York City and Great Neck material for his novel are shown by notes on the chapters of Gatsby that he made at least fourteen. The Great Gatsby by. F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby. Narrated by Frank Muller. HOME · ESL English Listening - ESL-BITS.

However, instead of delicate, this idea of weightlessness can be seen as an early representation of the emptiness of her character. This shows to the reader how she can easily charm people and cast a spell over them. Leslie A. She deceives Tom in going behind his back to see Gatsby, and deceives Gatsby in leading him to believe that she will give up her life with Tom to be with him. By the end of the novel Daisy is no longer the sweet and innocent girl she might be seen as presenting herself at the start, and the last we hear of her is when she leaves Gatsby for Tom, leaving Gatsby to take the blame for the killing of Myrtle, which in turn leads to the killing of Gatsby.

This is very obvious in the text, as we know that Daisy has been indulged in her life, coming from a rich background where her looks made her very popular, and having an endless assortment of men who would continue to spoil her.

This uncomplicated background has caused her to grow up to become the selfish and shallow character she is. We can also think of how she only thinks of herself, without regard for others, when she leads Gatsby on and makes him believe they have a future together, only to leave him and selfishly let him take the blame for the death of Myrtle, whom she killed. Gatsby has been dreaming of meeting up with Daisy again for five years, in which time Daisy has become less of a person to him, but more of a desired object, which he wants more than anything else.

This can be seen in several ways in the book, and the most outstanding is when Daisy kills Myrtle and then drives off, allowing people to believe that it was Gatsby who killed her. The second position — which compounds error — is that editors have the free- dom to emend anything in Fitzgerald that is problematical.

Schieffelin of Scribners: But it appears from a letter to Max Perkins that he actually meant orgastic. Max has evidently remonstrated with him. Conjecture has all the joy and all the pride of invention, and he that has once started a happy change, is too much delighted to con- sider what objection may rise against it.

Quod dubitas ne feceris. Hemingway Annual , pp. Huttner, Curator of Special Collections, reports that it has thirty- nine revisions, but the only substantive changes are Wolfshiem [ Wolfsheim. Arthur Sherbo New Haven and London: Yale University Press, , p.

Prince- ton University Library. The abnor- mal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon — for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them re usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.

I am still a little. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admis- sion that it has a limit. Only Gatsby,"' the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby 5 6 The Great Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorii. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.

No — Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sor- rows and short-winded elations of men. My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle- western city for three generations. I graduated from New Haven"' in , just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War.

I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought , in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and The Great Gatsby 7 friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea.

He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees — just as things grow in fast movies — I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America.

It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.

To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented"' for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name.

Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg"' glittered along the water and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. And just after the war"' I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterwards savours of anti-climax.

They had spent a year in 9 The Great Gatsby France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay.

The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens — finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of Erench windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years.

Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward.

Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body — he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat.

It was a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed.

There was a touch of paternal con- tempt in it, even toward people he liked — and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wed- ding cake of the ceiling — and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.

Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor. The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall.

If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it — indeed I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in. The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise — she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression — then she laughed, an ab- surd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as iFeaHi speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, brighTeyeTand a bright passionate mouth — but there was an excite- ffient in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.

This annoyed me. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. She was a slender, small-breasted girl with ain erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body back- ward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face.

It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before. She snapped them out with her fingers. They were here — and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be enter- tained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away.

It was sharply different from the West where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close in a continually disappointed antici- pation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself. Do you see? When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.

Things went from bad to worse until finally he had to give up his position. As if his absence quickened something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing. You remind me of a — of a rose, an absolute rose. I am n ot even, faintly like a rose.

She was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house. Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning.

A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly and then ceased altogether. I want to hear what happens. The Great Gatsby i6 Miss Baker nodded. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone and yet to avoid all eyes.

To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing — my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police. The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker with several feet of twilight between them strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.

Daisy took her face in her hands, as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. Would you like to hear? Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl.

She told me i t was a gir l, and so I turned my head away and wept. And I know. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributary emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago. Good night, Mr. See you anon. I think the home influence will be very good for her. I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light.

We heard you were engaged to a girl out West. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come east. Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of zo The Great Gatsby wayside garages where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard.


The wind had blown off, leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. Some- thing in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come ou t to determ ine what share was his of our local heavens. I decided to caTTto him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. Egg and New York the motor-road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land.

This is a valley of ashes"' — a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a tran- scendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.

Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud which screens their obscure opera- tions from your sight. E ckleburg. T he eyes of Doctor T. 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 which pass over a nonexistent nose.

Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to fatten his practice in the borough of Queens and then sank down himself into eternal blindness or forgot them and moved away. But his eyes, dimmed a little by many paintless days under sun and rain, brood on over the solemn dumping ground. The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour.

The fact that he had one was insisted upon wherever he was known. His acquaintances resented the fact that he turned up in popular restaurants with her and, leaving her at a table, sauntered about chatting with whomsoever he knew. I went up to New York with Tom on the train one afternoon and when we stopped by the ashheaps he jumped to his feet and taking hold of my elbow literally forced me from the car. The supercilious assumption was that on Sunday afternoon I had nothing better to do.

The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it and contiguous to absolutely nothing.

One of the three shops it contained was for rent and an- other was an all-night restaurant approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage — Repairs. George B. Cars Bought and Sold — and I followed Tom inside. The interior was unprosperous and bare; the only car visible was the dust-covered wreck of a Ford which crouched in a dim corner. It had occurred to me that this shadow of a garage must be a blind and that sumptuous and romantic apartments were concealed over- head when the proprietor himself appeared in the door of an office, wiping his hands on a piece of waste.

He was a blonde, spiritless man, ansemic and faintly handsome. When he saw us a damp gleam of hope sprang into his light blue eyes. Then I heard footsteps on a stairs and in a moment the 23 The Great Gatsby thickish figure of a woman blocked out the light from the office door.

She was in the middle thirties, and faintly stout, but she carried her surplus flesh sensuously as some women can. Her face, above a spotted dress of dark blue crepe-de-chine, contained no facet or gleam of beauty but there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering.

She smiled slowly and walking through her hus band as if he were a ghost s hook han ds with Tom, looking him flush in the eye. Then sHe wet her lips and without turning around spoke to her husband in a soft, coarse voice: A white ashen dust veiled his dark suit and his pale hair as it veiled everything in the vicinity — except his wife, who moved close to Tom. We waited for her down the road and out of sight.

It was a few days before the Fourth of July, and a grey, scrawny Italian child was setting torpedoes"' in a row along the railroad track. He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. WilsOn sat discreetly in an- other car. Tom deferred that much to the sensibilities of those East Eggers who might be on the train.

She had changed her dress to a brown figured muslin which stretched tight over her rather wide hips as Tom helped her to the The Great Gats by platform in New York.

Upstairs in the solemn echoing drive she let four taxi cabs drive away before she selected a new one, lavender-colored with grey upholstery, and in this we slid out from the mass of the station into the glowing sunshine.

But immediately she turned sharply from the window and leaning forward tapped on the front glass. Wilson eagerly as he came to the taxi window. What kind do you want, lady? Some coat. Wilson enthusiastically. Go and ten more dogs with it. At th Street"' the cab stopped at one slice in a long white cake of apartment houses. Throwing a regal homecoming glance around the neighborhood, Mrs. Wilson gathered up her dog and her other downloads and went haughtily in.

The living room was crowded to the doors with a set of tapestried furniture entirely too large for it so that to move about was to stumble continually over scenes of ladies swinging in the gardens of Versailles.

The only picture was an over-enlarged photograph, apparently a hen sitting on a blurred rock. Looked at from a distance however the hen resolved itself into a bonnet and the countenance of a stout old lady beamed down into the room. Wilson was first concerned with the dog. A reluctant elevator boy went for a box full of straw and some milk to which he added on his own initiative a tin of large hard dog biscuits — one of which decom- posed apathetically in the saucer of milk all afternoon.

Meanwhile Tom brought out a bottle of whiskey from a locked bureau door. Wilson called up several people on the telephone; then there were no cigarettes and I went The Great Gatsby 2. Just as Tom and Myrtle — after the first drink Mrs. Wilson and I called each other by our first names — reappeared, company com- menced to arrive at the apartment door. The sister, Catherine, was a slender, worldly girl of about thirty with a solid sticky bob of red hair and a complexion powdered milky white.

Her eyebrows had been plucked and then drawn on again at a more rakish angle but the efforts of nature toward the restoration of the old alignment gave a blurred air to her face. But when I asked her she laughed immoderately, repeated my question aloud and told me she lived with a girl friend at a hotel. McKee was a pale feminine man from the flat below. He had just shaved for there was a white spot of lather on his cheekbone and he was most respectful in his greeting to everyone in the room.

His wife was shrill, languid, handsome-aaidJiQrfiWe. She told me with pride that her husband had photographed her a hun- dred and twenty-seven times since they had been married. Wilson had changed her costume some time before and was now attired in an elaborate afternoon dress of cream colored chif- fon which gave out a continual rustle as she swept about the room. With the influence of the dress her personality had also undergone a change. All they think of is mon ey. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain.

Wilson who removed a strand of hair from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side and then moved his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face. Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep. You have to keep after them all the time. Tom looked at him blankly.

I was down there at a party about a month ago. Do you know him? McKee only nodded in a bored way and turned his attention to Tom. All I ask is that they should give me a start. Wilson entered with a tray. She lowered her voice again. I went over there with another girl. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started but we got gypped'" out of it all in two days in the private rooms.

We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!

McKee called me back into the room. I knew he was below me. I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there. I tried to show by my expression that I had played no part in her past. I knew right away I made a mistake. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I was him too, looking up and wonder- ing.

I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and re- pelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night.

McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the remains of the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon. The little dog was sitting"' on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke and from time to time groaning faintly.

People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight Tom Buchanan and Mrs.


Wilson stood face to face discussing in impassioned voices whether Mrs. McKee awoke from his doze and started in a daze toward the door. Then Mr. McKee turned and contin- ued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier I followed. McKee with dignity. I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands. Old Grocery Horse.

In his blue gardens men and jgiri came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an omni- bus, bearing parties to and from the city, between nine in the morn- ing and long past midnight, while his station wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all trains.

And on Mondays eight ser- vants including an extra gardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes and hammers and garden shears, repairing the ravages of the night before. Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York — every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves.

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 vyeave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group and then excited with triumph glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and color under the constantly changing light.

People were not invited — they went there. 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 Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission. I had been actually invited. He had seen me several times and had intended to call on me long before but a peculiar combination of circumstances had prevented it — signed Jay Gatsby in a majestic hand. 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 all selling something: 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 con- temptuous 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. My voice seemed un- naturally loud across the garden. She had lost in the finals the week before. A tray of cocktails floated at us through the twilight and we sat down at a table with the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced to us as Mr.

She turned to her companion: I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars. The three Mr. Mumbles bent for- ward and listened eagerly. Lucille shivered. We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. The first supper — there would be another one after midnight — was now being served and Jordan invited me to join her own party who were spread around a table on the other side of the garden.

Instead of rambling this party had preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the function of representing the staid nobility of the country-side — East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully on guard against its spectroscopic gayety. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melancholy way. The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded but Gatsby was not there. On a chance we tried an important-looking door, and walked into a high Gothic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.

As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot. I ascertained. Pages and Here! Lemme show you. It fooled me. What thoroughness! What realism! What do you expect?

I was brought. Most people were brought. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? Did I tell you about the books? There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden, old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably and keeping in 39 The Great Gatsby the corners — and a great number of single girls dancing individualis- tically or relieving the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the traps.

By midnight the hilarity had increased. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.

I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl who gave way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laughter. I was enjoying my- self now. I had taken two finger bowls of champagne and the scene had changed before my eyes into something significant, elemental and profound. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life.

It faced — or seemed to face — the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it vanished — and I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck, a year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech just missed being absurd.

Almost at the moment when Mr. Gatsby identified himself a butler hurried toward him with the information that Chicago was calling him on the wire. He excused himself with a small bow that included each of us in turn.

I will rejoin you later. I had expected that Mr. Gatsby would be a florid and corpulent person in his middle years. And what does he do? I would have accepted without question the information that Gatsby sprang from the swamps of Louisiana or from the lower East Side of New York.

That was comprehensible. Gatsby we are going to play for you Mr.

If you read the papers you know there was a big sensation. I could see nothing sinister about him. Gatsby would like to speak to you alone. I noticed that she wore her evening dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes — there was a jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk upon golf courses on clean, crisp mornings.

I was alone and it was almost two. For some time confused and intriguing sounds had issued from a long many-windowed room which overhung the terrace. The large room was full of people; One of the girls in yellow was playing the piano and beside her stood a tall red haired young lady from a famous chorus, engaged in song.

She had drunk a quantity of champagne and during the course of her song she had decided ineptly that everything was very very sad — she was not only sing- ing, she was weeping to o. Whenever there was a pause in the song she filled it with gasping broken sobs and then took up the lyric again in a quavering soprano.

The tears coursed down her cheeks — not freely, however, for when they came into contact with her heavily beaded eyelashes they assumed an inky color, and pursued the rest of their way in slow black rivulets. A humorous suggestion was made that she sing the notes on her face whereupon she threw up her hands, sank into a chair and went off into a deep vinous sleep. Most of the remaining women were now having fights with men said to be their husbands.

The reluctance to go home was not confined to wayward men.

Activities for Assignment #2: Text Messages by The Great Gatsby

The hall was at present occupied by two deplorably sober men and their highly indignant wives. The wives were sympathizing with each other in slightly raised voices.

He was saying some last word to her but the eagerness in his manner tightened abruptly into formality as several people approached him to say goodbye. Phone book. Under the name of Mrs. Sigourney Howard. My aunt. Good night. Fifty feet from the door a dozen headlights illuminated a bizarre and tumultuous scene.

The sharp jut of a wall accounted for the detachment of the wheel which was now getting considerable attention from half a dozen curious chauffeurs. However, as they had left their cars blocking the road a harsh discordant din from those in the rear had been audible for some time and added to the already violent confusion of the scene.

Did you run into the wall? A bad driver and not even trying! The crowd — it was now a crowd — stepped back involuntarily and when the door had opened wide there was a ghostly pause. Blinded by the glare of the headlights and confused by the inces- sant groaning of the horns the apparition stood swaying for a mo- ment before he perceived the man in the duster.

He nodded. Then taking a long breath and straightening his shoul- ders he remarked in a determined voice: The caterwauling horns had reached a crescendo and I turned away and cut across the lawn toward home.

I glanced back once. A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell. Reading over what I have written so far I see I have given the impression that the events of three nights several weeks apart were all that absorbed me. On the contrary they were merely casual events in a crowded summer and, until much later, they absorbed me infinitely less than my personal affairs.

Most of the time I worked. In the early morning the sun threw my shadow westward as I hurried down the white chasms of lower New York to the Probity Trust.

I knew the other clerks and young bond-salesmen by their first names and lunched with them in dark crowded restaurants on little pig sausages and mashed potatoes and coffee. I took dinner usually at the Yale Club'" — for some reason it was the gloomiest event of my day — and then I went upstairs to the library and studied investments and securities for a conscientious hour.

There were generally a few rioters around but they never came into the library so it was a good place to work. Step 2: When students take their seats, point out and explain the posters around the room. When the say names, write one name on each of the posters. Step 3: By the end of each week, students will be required to post any information to the boards about at least 2 different characters.

Explain that should utilize the class time before the bell rings, after class, or when class time permits individual work, to write their ideas on the boards.

Step 4: Explain what students can write for each character: pictures, quotes, words, descriptions, etc. These will remain in a stationary place through the reading of the whole novel. Outcome: Each student must have written at least one bit of relevant information for each character board by Friday student should write their name next to the information they write on each board to identify their work. Step 1: Introduce weekly journals to students on the first Friday of the unit.

Step 3: Every Friday, students will write in their ongoing journals about a prompt assigned by the teacher. The teacher should write this prompt on the board before class begins. The topics of the journals will vary; however, they should pertain to themes, plot, events, and characters in the novel.

Step 4: Collect these journals every Friday after class to read over the week. Work will be assessed as participation. Outcome: Journal entries to be collected weekly on Fridays. Step 1: The teacher should give each student a larger sheet of paper ie. Step 2: Have a list of the characters from the novel displayed on the board. Step 3: Each student should write all of the characters names in a circle on their piece of paper.

Step 4: While reading, students should literally map with lines the connections between the characters. For example, when Daisy and Jay meet, students should draw a line between those two names.

Step 5: Whenever a student draws a connection between characters, they should write a brief description of the event that caused the two characters to meet. Students should also explain the significance of this connection and its relation to some larger theme or issue in the text. Outcome: Graphic Organizer for Character Web.

First, record each of the characters names in one of the circles below. Then, when one of the characters has some sort of interaction with another character, draw a line between the two. On that line, write a brief description one sentence describing the event that caused the two characters to meet.

Today, with more tools at their disposal, writing often use italics, boldface, underlining, font size, and font styles to convey various moods and expressions. Step 2: Ask students how often they use these types of writing with emphasis OR when do they remember using such a tactic in their writing?I went out and opened it. The novel takes place following the First World War.

Jan 02, is a crucial theme analysis, essays on the great gatsby is a library card catalog. Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. We went by way of Marseilles. This sequence is a later draft and is keyed to typescript.