Monthly Archives: June 2011

The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald

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I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

‘I am glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’

Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

Her eye-brows 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.

I began to like New York, the racy, adventurous feel of it at night, and the satisfaction that the constant flicker of men and women and machines gives to the restless eye.

“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself.

Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture.

The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though have a sharp memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back.

She wanted her life shaped now, immediately and the decision must be made by some force of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality that was close at hand.

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