We analyze romances between Gatsby and Daisy, Myrtle and George, In Louisville, he met Daisy Fay, a beautiful young heiress (10 years his .. he quickly got it back and was able to hide in his money while Gatsby, Myrtle. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. . “Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “ What Gatsby?” Before I could reply that he was my . “I love to see you at my table, Nick. ever likely to meet again. .. DAISY (CONT'D). All the bright precious things fade so fast And as a sad, water, and across the bay toward Gatsby's castle.
Schwartze the son and Arthur McCarty, all connected with the movies in one way or another. And the Catlips and the Bembergs and G. Earl Muldoon, brother to that Muldoon who afterward strangled his wife. Belcher and the Smirkes and the young Quinns, divorced now, and Henry L.
Palmetto, who killed himself by jumping in front of a subway train in Times Square. Benny McClenahan arrived always with four girls. They were never quite the same ones in physical person, but they were so identical one with another that it inevitably seemed they had been there before. I have forgotten their names — Jaqueline, I think, or else Consuela, or Gloria or Judy or June, and their last names were either the melodious names of flowers and months or the sterner ones of the great American capitalists whose cousins, if pressed, they would confess themselves to be.
Jewett, once head of the American Legion, and Miss Claudia Hip, with a man reputed to be her chauffeur, and a prince of something, whom we called Duke, and whose name, if I ever knew it, I have forgotten. It was the first time he had called on me, though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness.
He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car.
Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town.
I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say: So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate road-house next door.
And then came that disconcerting ride. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg, but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald : Chapter 4
It was a great relief, and I tried very hard to die, but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead.
I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration — even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea! He lifted up the words and nodded at them — with his smile. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines. He reached in his pocket, and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm.
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald : Chapter 1
A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad — the man on my left is now the Earl of Dorcaster. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger — with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.
You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to 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 not 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. She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: 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 every one, 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. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl. 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.
The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory 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. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post. 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.