Великий Гэтсби

           IseenowthatthishasbeenastoryoftheWest,afterall—TomandGatsby,DaisyandJordanandI,wereallWesterners,andperhapswepossessedsomedeficiencyincommonwhichmadeussubtlyunadaptabletoEasternlife.

           EvenwhentheEastexcitedmemost,evenwhenIwasmostkeenlyawareofitssuperioritytothebored,sprawling,swollentownsbeyondtheOhio,withtheirinterminableinquisitionswhichsparedonlythechildrenandtheveryold—eventhenithadalwaysformeaqualityofdistortion.WestEgg,especially,stillfiguresinmymorefantasticdreams.IseeitasanightscenebyElGreco:ahundredhouses,atonceconventionalandgrotesque,crouchingunderasullen,overhangingskyandalustrelessmoon.Intheforegroundfoursolemnmenindresssuitsarewalkingalongthesidewalkwithastretcheronwhichliesadrunkenwomaninawhiteeveningdress.Herhand,whichdanglesovertheside,sparklescoldwithjewels.Gravelythementurninatahouse—thewronghouse.Butnooneknowsthewoman’sname,andnoonecares.

           AfterGatsby’sdeaththeEastwashauntedformelikethat,distortedbeyondmyeyes’powerofcorrection.SowhenthebluesmokeofbrittleleaveswasintheairandthewindblewthewetlaundrystiffonthelineIdecidedtocomebackhome.

           TherewasonethingtobedonebeforeIleft,anawkward,unpleasantthingthatperhapshadbetterhavebeenletalone.ButIwantedtoleavethingsinorderandnotjusttrustthatobligingandindifferentseatosweepmyrefuseaway.IsawJordanBakerandtalkedoverandaroundwhathadhappenedtoustogether,andwhathadhappenedafterwardtome,andshelayperfectlystill,listening,inabigchair.