Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

I

In my younger and more vulnerable years (the narrator is telling this from later on, looking back at himself when he was easily hurt.) my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind (thinking about again and again) ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative (open with each other) in a reserved way (saying little and showing little), and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence (and so), I’m inclined (in the habit of) to reserve all judgements (not deciding whether people are good or bad), a habit that has opened up (made people show me their real selves) many curious natures (many strange sorts of people) to me and also made me the victim of not a few (quite a lot of) veteran bores (dull people who have had years of practice at it). The abnormal mind is quick to detect (notice, pick out) and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that (it happened that) in college I was unjustly (wrongly, with no fair cause) accused of being a politician (someone who makes friends everywhere for his own gain), because I was privy (allowed to know something secret) to the secret griefs (the things that hurt them most) of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences (the private things people told me in trust) were unsought (not asked for by me)—frequently I have feigned (pretended) sleep, preoccupation (the look of a mind full of something else), or a hostile levity (joking in an unfriendly way, to stop the other person coming closer) when I realized by some unmistakable (that could not be read any other way) sign that an intimate revelation (a telling of something deeply private) was quivering on the horizon (just about to arrive, like something shaking into view far off); for (here this word means 'because') the intimate revelations (things told that were hidden before) of young men, or at least the terms in which (the words they choose to use) they express them, are usually plagiaristic (copied from what others have said) and marred (spoiled) by obvious (plain to anyone who looks) suppressions (things left out on purpose). Reserving judgements (the name the narrator gives his own rule: he lets a person's character stay an open question) is a matter of infinite hope (believing that anyone may still become better than they seem). I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly (in a way that looks down on people below you) suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental (most basic) decencies (the plain right ways of treating people) is parcelled out (shared out in portions) unequally (in different amounts to different people) at birth.

And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes (built on solid ground or on soft, sinking ground), but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention (standing straight and behaving itself, like soldiers on parade) forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart (wild trips into what people secretly feel, let in where others are shut out). Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book (The narrator steps out of the story to speak about the book you are holding: it carries this man as its title.), was exempt (left out, not included) from my reaction (the way the narrator had turned away from all of it)—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn (The sentence means two opposite things and both are meant. Gatsby is the one man the narrator does not judge, and Gatsby is also everything the narrator honestly hates.). If personality is an unbroken (with no gaps in it) series of successful gestures (moves and words that all go right, one after another), then there was something gorgeous (grand and dazzling to see in a man) about him, some heightened (raised above the normal level) sensitivity (the power to feel very small changes) to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes (instruments made of many fine parts that pick up the shaking of the ground far away) ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness (being so quick to feel things) had nothing to do with that flabby (soft and weak) impressionability (a nature that takes its feeling from whatever is nearest) which is dignified under the name of (called by a fine name to make it sound better) the “creative temperament (the flattering name given to an artist's nature)”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness (always ready to believe that something wonderful is coming) such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby (the one man the narrator does not judge) turned out (proved to be, in the end) all right at the end; it is what preyed on (fed on and wore down) Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams (the dirt that trailed along behind what he wanted, as churned water trails behind a boat) that temporarily (for a time only) closed out (shut off, ended) my interest in the abortive (coming to nothing) sorrows and short-winded elations (joys that run short of breath and stop) of men.

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My family have been prominent, well-to-do (having plenty of money) people in this Middle Western (of the middle part of the United States, far from either coast) city for three generations. The Carraways (the narrator's own family) are something of a clan (a large family group that holds together), and we have a tradition that we’re descended (born in a line coming down from) from the Dukes of Buccleuch (a very old and grand Scottish noble family), but the actual founder of my line (the man who really started the family) was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one (in the year 1851), sent a substitute to the Civil War (in the American Civil War of the 1860s a man called up could pay someone else to go and fight for him), and started the wholesale hardware business (a firm selling tools and metal goods in large amounts to shops) that my father carries on (still runs today) today.

I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him (people say I look like him)—with special reference to (and people point in particular to) the rather hard-boiled (tough, showing no soft feeling) painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven (the city of Yale University; here it means the university itself) in 1915, 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 (the First World War of 1914 to 1918. the narrator jokes about it as Germans on the move once more.). I enjoyed the counter-raid (the attack made back at the enemy) so thoroughly (completely, all the way through) that I came back restless (unable to settle or stay still). Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West (the middle part of the United States, where the narrator's family live) now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe (the torn outer border of everything, far from where anything matters)—so I decided to go East (move to the eastern states, on the far side of the country) and learn the bond business (the trade in bonds: papers a company or a government sells when it borrows money). Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over (discussed it among themselves) as if they were choosing a prep school (a private school that gets boys ready for university) for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es (a small hesitating sound, then a long doubtful agreement),” with very grave (serious, with no smile), hesitant (unsure and slow to answer) faces. 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 year 1922).

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 friendly trees (open land with cut grass and easy, welcoming trees), so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town (a town people live in and travel from each day to work in the city), it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten (worn rough by years of rain and sun) cardboard bungalow (a small flimsy house, as if built of stiff paper) at eighty a month (eighty dollars a month, a cheap rent), but at the last minute (just before it was too late) the firm ordered him to Washington (the capital city of the United States), and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge (a plain, cheap American make of car) and a Finnish woman (a woman from Finland, in the far north of Europe), who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered (said in a low voice, half to herself) Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

“How do you get to West Egg (a village out in the country beyond the city) village?” he asked helplessly (as if lost and unable to manage).

I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler (someone who knows the way and was here first, like the first people to open new land). He had casually (without thinking about it) conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood (handed the narrator the honour of belonging here, the way a city gives a visitor its highest welcome).

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 same firm belief he knew well) 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 (drawn in from fresh new air that fills the chest). I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities (papers showing money lent out or a share owned in a company), and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint (bright and untouched, like coins fresh from the place where they are struck), promising to unfold the shining secrets (open up the bright hidden knowledge) that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew (three names famous for great wealth: a king in an old story whose touch turned things to gold, a famous American banker, and a rich Roman). And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary (very interested in writing and books) in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn (very serious in tone) and obvious (saying only what everyone already thought) editorials (opinion pieces written for a newspaper) for the Yale News (the student newspaper of Yale, the university the narrator went to)—and now I was going to bring back (start doing again) all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” (Being good at many things is normally praise. The narrator turns it around and calls such a person the narrowest expert of all — he is laughing at himself.) This isn’t just an epigram (a short clever saying)—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window (you see life better from one fixed place than from many), after all.

It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities (places where people live together as a group) in North America (the part of the world holding the United States and Canada). It was on that slender (long and narrow) riotous (wild and out of hand) island which extends itself due east of New York (the largest city in the United States)—and where there are, among other natural curiosities (odd things in the land worth looking at), two unusual formations (shapes the land has taken) of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs (two huge pieces of land shaped like eggs), identical (exactly the same) in contour (the line of the outer edge) and separated only by a courtesy bay (a stretch of water too small for the grand name it is given, called that only to be polite), jut out (reach far from the shore into) into the most domesticated (tamed, made as safe as a farm animal) body of salt water (stretch of sea water) in the Western hemisphere (the half of the world that holds the Americas), the great wet barnyard (the calm, tame bay, pictured as a big wet yard where farm animals are kept) of Long Island Sound (the sheltered sea water between the island and the mainland). They are not perfect ovals (rounded shapes longer than they are wide)—like the egg in the Columbus story (Columbus, the sailor who crossed to America in 1492; in an old tale he made an egg stand upright by crushing one end flat), they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance (the way they look the same) must be a source of perpetual (never-ending) wonder to the gulls (large grey and white sea birds) that fly overhead (above, in the sky). To the wingless (people, who cannot fly) a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity (how unlike each other they are) in every particular (in every detail) except shape and size.

I lived at West Egg (the less fashionable of the two arms of land, where the narrator lives), the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial (going no deeper than the surface) tag (a short name used as a label) to express the bizarre (very strange) and not a little (very) sinister (giving the feeling that something is wrong) contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards (about forty-five metres) from the Sound (the sheltered sea water between the island and the mainland), and squeezed (pressed in tightly) between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season (twelve to fifteen thousand dollars for one summer, an enormous rent). The one on my right was a colossal (huge) affair by any standard (a building of huge size, however you measure it)—it was a factual (exact, true to the original) imitation (a copy of something else) of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy (a French town hall building; Normandy is a region in the north of France), with a tower on one side, spanking new (brand new) under a thin beard of raw ivy (a thin covering of young climbing plant, like hair on a face), and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres (about sixteen hectares, a very large piece of ground) of lawn (an area of cut grass around a house) and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion (a very large grand house). Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited (lived in) by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore (something ugly to look at), but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked (passed by without notice), so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling (comforting) proximity (being close by) of millionaires (people with a million dollars or more)—all for eighty dollars a month.

Across the courtesy bay (the stretch of water too small for the grand name it is given, called that only to be polite) the white palaces of fashionable East Egg (the richer of the two arms of land, across the water) glittered (shone with many small points of light) 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 (Tom Buchanan and his wife). Daisy (the narrator's cousin, met again after the war) was my second cousin once removed (a distant blood relation, further off than a first cousin), and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago (a large city in the middle of the United States).

Her husband, among various physical accomplishments (skills of the body), had been one of the most powerful ends (players in one of the positions on an American football team) that ever played football at New Haven (Yale University, where the narrator and Tom were students)—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute (sharp and intense) limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of (has the flavour of, seems like) anticlimax (a weak, flat ending after something big). His family were enormously (very greatly) wealthy (having a great deal of money)—even in college his freedom with money (the careless way he spent it) was a matter for reproach (blame spoken out loud)—but now he’d left Chicago (a large city in the middle of the United States) and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away (was startling in its size): for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies (a set of small horses kept for a rich man's game played on horseback with long sticks and a ball) from Lake Forest (a wealthy town outside Chicago). It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.

Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France (a country in western Europe) for no particular reason (no special reason), and then drifted (moved about with no plan) here and there unrestfully (without ever settling anywhere) wherever people played polo (a game played on horses with long sticks and a ball) and were rich together (shared the same easy life that money buys). This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart (I could not see what Daisy really felt), but I felt that Tom would drift on (keep moving with no plan) forever seeking, a little wistfully (with a sad longing), for the dramatic turbulence (the wild stirring excitement) of some irrecoverable (gone, and never to be had again) football game.

And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg (the richer of the two arms of land, across the water) to see two old friends whom I scarcely (hardly, almost not) knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial (an older American house style with straight lines and a plain front) mansion (a very large grand house), overlooking (having a view down over) the bay. The lawn (an area of cut grass around a house) started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile (about four hundred metres), jumping over sundials (stone clocks that tell the time by a shadow) and brick walks (paths of brick laid across a garden) and burning gardens (flower beds so bright with colour they look on fire)—finally when it reached the house drifting (moving slowly and with no direction) up the side in bright vines (climbing plants) as though from the momentum of its run (as if the grass had run so hard it kept going up the wall). The front was broken by (the flat face of the house was cut across by) a line of French windows (tall glass doors that open onto a garden), glowing (giving off a soft warm light) 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 (a covered platform at the door of a house).

He had changed since his New Haven (Yale University, where Tom and the narrator were students) years. Now he was a sturdy (strongly built) straw-haired (with hair the pale yellow of dry grass stalks) man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious (looking down on everyone) manner. Two shining (bright) arrogant (sure of being better than others) eyes had established dominance over his face (took charge of his face, so that they ruled the whole of it) and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively (in a pushing, ready-to-fight way) forward. Not even the effeminate (more like a woman than a man) swank (show-off style) of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening (shining as if wet) boots until he strained (pulled tight) the top lacing (the cords that tie riding boots at the top), and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting (moving from one place to another) when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage (force got by pushing against something)—a cruel body.

His speaking voice, a gruff (rough and low) husky (deep and a little rough in sound) tenor (the higher singing range for a man; here the pitch of his voice), added to the impression of fractiousness (being quick to quarrel) he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal (like a father's) contempt (the feeling that someone is worth nothing) in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven (Yale University, where he had been a student) who had hated his guts (hated him deeply).

“Now (used here to open the remark, close to 'listen'), don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society (a private students' club at Yale for men in their last year), and while we were never intimate (close as friends) I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant (with a stubborn edge, as if daring to be refused) wistfulness (a sad wish for something missing) of his own.

We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch (a covered platform at the door of a house).

“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly (without staying still).

Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista (a long open view), including in its sweep (in the wide movement of his arm) a sunken Italian garden (a shaped garden set lower than the ground around it, in the Italian style), a half acre (about two thousand square metres) of deep, pungent (with a strong sharp smell) roses, and a snub-nosed (with a short blunt front, like a flattened nose) motorboat (a small boat driven by an engine) that bumped the tide (knocked against the moving water) offshore (out from the land, on the water).

“It belonged to Demaine (the man who owned it before Tom), the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly (suddenly and sharply). “We’ll go inside.”

We walked through a high hallway (a passage inside the front door) into a bright rosy-coloured (pale pink) space, fragilely bound into the house (only just joined to the house, as if it might come loose) by French windows (tall glass doors that open onto a garden) at either end. The windows were ajar (open a little way) and gleaming (shining brightly) 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 wedding-cake of the ceiling (the white shaped plaster above them, like the sugar on a wedding cake), and then rippled (moved in small waves) over the wine-coloured rug (a thick floor covering), making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

The only completely stationary (not moving) object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up (raised and carried as if floating on water) as though upon an anchored (held in one place by a weight) balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling (moving in small waves) and fluttering (moving quickly to and fro) as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house (as if the wind had carried them out and then returned them). I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains (the sharp cracking sounds cloth makes in a wind) and the groan of a picture on the wall (the low sound the picture made as it moved). Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear (back) windows and the caught wind died out (faded away to nothing) about the room (around the room), and the curtains and the rugs (thick floor coverings) and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor (sank down in soft curves, like a balloon losing its air).

The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length (lying stretched right out) at her end of the divan (a long low seat with no back), 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 (by looking sideways without turning her head) she gave no hint (a small sign) of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into (so startled that I nearly did it without meaning to) murmuring (saying in a low soft voice) 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 (careful to do the right thing) expression—then she laughed, an absurd (silly, not sensible), charming (pleasing and attractive) little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.

“I’m p-paralysed with happiness (a joking way of saying she is too glad to move).”

She laughed again, as if she said something very witty (clever and funny), and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. (she often behaved like that) She hinted (said in an indirect way) in a murmur (a low soft voice) that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker (the other young woman at the Buchanans' that evening). (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant (having nothing to do with the point) criticism (a remark finding fault) that made it no less charming (pleasing and attractive).)

At any rate (anyway), Miss Baker’s lips fluttered (moved quickly and lightly), she nodded at me almost imperceptibly (so slightly it could hardly be seen), and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered (wobbled as if about to fall) a little and given her something of a fright (a small scare). Again a sort of apology arose to my lips (came up ready to be spoken). Almost any exhibition (a showing of the way a person behaves) of complete self-sufficiency (needing nobody else at all) draws a stunned tribute from me (makes me admire it in silent surprise).

I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling (exciting to hear) voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down (the listener's ear goes with the voice as it rises and falls), as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again (a tune put together once and never repeated). Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate (full of strong feeling) mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for (loved) her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion (her voice pulls you to listen, the way a tune does), a whispered (spoken in a very soft breath) “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay (merry, full of fun), exciting things just a while since (a short time ago) and that there were gay, exciting things hovering (waiting close by in the air) in the next hour.

I told her how I had stopped off (stayed a short while on the way) in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me (asked me to bring her their good wishes).

“Do they miss me?” she cried (said it loudly) ecstatically (with wild delight).

“The whole town is desolate. (the narrator is joking. The words say the whole place has been left empty and sad by her going, and Chicago is going on as usual.) All the cars have the left rear (back) wheel painted black as a mourning wreath (a ring of leaves and flowers hung on a door to show a death in the house), and there’s a persistent (going on and on without stopping) wail (a long high cry of grief) all night along the north shore (the rich lakeside strip north of Chicago).”

“How gorgeous! (what wonderful news) Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly (with no link to what came before): “You ought to see the baby.”

“I’d like to.”

“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”

“Never.”

“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”

Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering (moving about near without settling) restlessly (unable to keep still) about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.

“What you doing (what are you doing, with the word 'are' dropped in careless speech), Nick (the narrator, new in the East and learning the bond business)?”

“I’m a bond man (a man who sells bonds, the papers a company or a government issues when it borrows).”

“Who with? (which firm do you work for)”

I told him.

“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively (in a firm way that closed the matter).

This annoyed me.

“You will,” I answered shortly (in few words, sharply). “You will if you stay in the East.”

“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert (watchful, ready to notice) for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool (a complete idiot, said with a strong swear) to live anywhere else.”

At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness (how quickly and without warning it came) that I started (I jumped in surprise)—it was the first word she had uttered (spoken) since I came into the room. Evidently (clearly) it surprised her as much as it did me, for (here this word means 'because') she yawned (opened her mouth wide because she was sleepy) and with a series of rapid, deft (quick and neat) movements stood up into the room (stood up from the sofa and so became part of the room and the people in it).

“I’m stiff (sore and hard to move after lying still),” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted (answered sharply), “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails (mixed alcoholic drinks) just in from the pantry (a small room where food and drink are kept). “I’m absolutely in training (I am keeping strictly fit for my sport).”

Her host looked at her incredulously (as if he could not believe her).

“You are!” He took down (swallowed) his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me (I cannot understand it).”

I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender (thin and slight), small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage (the straight upright way she held her body), which she accentuated (made more noticeable) by throwing her body backward (towards the back) at the shoulders like a young cadet (a young man in training to become an army officer). Her grey sun-strained (tired from long hours in bright light) eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal (given back in return) curiosity out of a wan (pale and tired-looking), charming (pleasing and attractive), discontented (not happy with things as they are) face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.

“You live in West Egg (the less fashionable of the two pieces of land, where Nick lives),” she remarked contemptuously (as if it were worth nothing). “I know somebody there.”

“I don’t know a single—”

“You must know Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” demanded (asked sharply) Daisy. “What Gatsby?”

Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging (pushing tightly into a narrow space) his tense arm imperatively (as an order not to be refused) under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled (forced) me from the room as though he were moving a checker (a flat round piece used in a simple board game, moved from square to square) to another square.

Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips (the slow, soft-moving way fashionable young women of the day were expected to walk and stand), the two young women preceded (went in front of) us out on to a rosy-coloured (pale pink) porch (a covered platform at the door of a house), open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered (burned with a shaky light) on the table in the diminished (made smaller and weaker) wind.

“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning (making an unhappy face). She snapped them out (put the flames out with her fingers) with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year (midsummer, around 21 June, when there is most daylight).” She looked at us all radiantly (with a bright happy look). “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”

“We ought to plan something,” yawned (opened her mouth wide because she was sleepy) Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.

“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll (what will) we plan?” She turned to me helplessly (as if she could not manage it herself): “What do people plan?”

Before I could answer her eyes fastened (fixed themselves) with an awed (filled with wonder) expression on her little finger.

“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”

We all looked—the knuckle (the joint of a finger) was black and blue (marked dark by a knock).

“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly (as if blaming him). “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute (a rough violent man) of a man, a great, big, hulking (big and heavy in a clumsy way) physical specimen (an example of a type, said here of a person) of a—”

“I hate that word ‘hulking (big and heavy in a clumsy way),’ ” objected Tom crossly (in an annoyed way), “even in kidding (as a joke).”

“Hulking (big and heavy in a clumsy way),” insisted Daisy.

Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once (at the same time as each other), unobtrusively (without drawing notice) and with a bantering (light teasing) inconsequence (a way of talking where nothing follows from anything) that was never quite chatter (quick light talk about nothing), that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal (showing no feeling for the person in front of them) eyes in the absence of all desire (wanting nothing from anyone there). They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently (soon, a little later) dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually (in an easy way, with no care) put away (finished with and set aside). It was sharply (very clearly) different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase (from one stage of it to the next) towards its close (its end), in a continually disappointed anticipation (waiting for something to come) or else in sheer (pure, nothing but) nervous dread (deep fear) of the moment itself.

“You make me feel uncivilized (rough, without manners), Daisy,” I confessed (admitted) on my second glass of corky (tasting wrong, because the wine has spoiled in the bottle) but rather impressive claret (a red wine from the Bordeaux region of France). “Can’t you talk about crops or something (talk farming, the way a plain country man would)?”

I meant nothing in particular (nothing special) by this remark, but it was taken up (caught hold of and carried further) in an unexpected way.

“Civilization’s going to pieces (breaking apart and failing),” broke out (suddenly said loudly) Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be (I have become) a terrible pessimist (someone who expects the worst) about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires (an invented book title; in the story it claims white people are losing their power) by this man Goddard (the author of the book Tom has been reading)?”

“Why, no (a small sound of surprise before answering, not a question),” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.

“Well, (a word used to open a remark, close to 'now then') it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out (be careful) the white race will be—will be utterly (completely) submerged (buried under the numbers of other peoples and wiped away). It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved. (no proof is offered here — Tom gives none himself, only that a book says so, and for him that settles it)”

“Tom’s getting very profound (saying deep, serious-sounding things),” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful (with no thought behind it) sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”

“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently (showing he did not want to wait). “This fellow has worked out (reasoned it all through) the whole thing. It’s up to us (it is our job), who are the dominant race, to watch out (be careful) or these other races will have control of things.”

“We’ve got to beat them down (Daisy does not mean it. The words say 'crush them', and she is copying Tom's talk to make fun of it, winking hard as she says it.),” whispered (said in a very soft breath) Daisy, winking (shutting one eye quickly as a private sign) ferociously (in a wild, fierce way) toward the fervent (burning hot) sun.

“You ought to live in California (the western state of the United States, on the Pacific coast)—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting (moving his weight about) heavily in his chair.

“This idea is that we’re Nordics (a name once used for the peoples of northern Europe, treated then as a separate race). I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal (extremely small) hesitation (a short pause of doubt) he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked (shut one eye quickly as a private sign) at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make (together build) civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”

There was something pathetic (sad, moving one to pity) in his concentration, as if his complacency (being pleased with himself), more acute (sharp and strong) than of old (in the past), was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang (sounded its bell) inside and the butler (the chief male servant of a rich house) left the porch (a covered platform at the door of a house) Daisy seized upon (took hold of quickly) the momentary (lasting only a very short time) interruption (a break that stops what is going on) and leaned towards me.

“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered (said in a very soft breath) enthusiastically (with eager delight). “It’s about the butler’s (the chief male servant of a rich house) nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”

“That’s why I came over tonight.”

“Well, he wasn’t always a butler (the chief male servant of a rich house); he used to be the silver polisher (the servant whose whole job was rubbing the silver until it shone) for some people in New York (the largest city in the United States) that had a silver service (a full set of silver knives, forks and dishes for the table) for two hundred people. He had to polish (rub until it shines) it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”

“Things went from bad to worse (it got steadily worse),” suggested Miss Baker.

“Yes. Things went from bad to worse (it got steadily worse), until finally he had to give up (leave, and not go back) his position (his job).”

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing (shining with a soft warm light) face; her voice compelled (forced) me forward breathlessly (with my breath held) as I listened—then the glow (the soft warm light) faded, each light deserting her with lingering (slow to leave) regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk (slowly and unwillingly, the way children go home when night comes).

The butler (the chief male servant of a rich house) came back and murmured (said in a low soft voice) something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon (and then) Tom frowned (made an unhappy face), pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened (made livelier) something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing (warm and bright in sound) and singing.

“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”

This was untrue (false). I am not even faintly (even slightly) like a rose. She was only extemporizing (making it up as she spoke), but a stirring warmth flowed from her (a warmth rose out of her that moved me), as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed (hidden) in one of those breathless, thrilling (exciting to hear) words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself (said something polite and left the table) and went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning (empty on purpose, saying nothing at all). I was about to speak when she sat up alertly (quickly and watchfully) and said “Sh (a sound telling someone to be quiet)!” in a warning voice. A subdued (kept low and quiet) impassioned (full of strong feeling) murmur (the sound of people talking quietly) was audible (loud enough to be heard) in the room beyond (in the next room), and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed (with no shame about it), trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge (the very edge) of coherence (words clear enough to make sense), sank down, mounted (rose and grew louder) excitedly, and then ceased (stopped) altogether.

“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.

“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”

“Is something happening?” I inquired (asked) innocently (as if I knew nothing about it).

“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”

“I don’t.”

“Why— (a hesitating sound before answering, not a question)” she said hesitantly (with an unsure pause). “Tom’s got some woman (keeps another woman as a lover) in New York.”

“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly (with no expression at all).

Miss Baker nodded.

“She might have the decency (the plain good manners to do right) not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”

Almost before I had grasped (understood) her meaning there was the flutter (a quick light movement) of a dress and the crunch (a crushing sound on the ground) of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.

“It couldn’t be helped! (there was no way to stop it)” cried (said it loudly) Daisy with tense gaiety (cheerful on the surface, with strain underneath).

She sat down, glanced searchingly (looking hard for something in their faces) at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute (for a short time), and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn (the cut grass around the house) that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line (that small night-singing bird belongs in Europe, so Daisy jokes that it crossed the ocean on one of the great passenger ships). He’s singing away (singing on and on)—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably (in a low, sad way) to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables (the building where the horses are kept).”

The telephone rang (sounded its bell) inside, startlingly (in a way that made them jump), and as Daisy shook her head decisively (firmly, ending the matter) at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air (disappeared completely). Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes (Nick remembers only scattered pieces of those five minutes) at table (during the meal) I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly (someone made the candles burn again, and for nothing), and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely (straight and full in the face) at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes (not look anyone in the face). I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered (learned and made her own) a certain hardy (tough, able to stand hard use) scepticism (a habit of not believing things easily), was able utterly (completely) to put this fifth guest’s (the telephone, counted as one more person at the table) shrill (high and sharp in sound) metallic (like the sound of metal) urgency (the pressing need to be answered) out of mind (away, and stop thinking about it). To a certain temperament (sort of nature) the situation might have seemed intriguing (interesting in a puzzling way)—my own instinct (the feeling that comes without thinking) was to telephone immediately for the police.

The horses, needless to say (of course), were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight (the last weak light after the sun goes down) between them, strolled (walked slowly and easily) back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body (as though sitting up all night by a dead person: the trouble in the house is that solid to them), while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas (open covered walkways along the outside of a house) to the porch (a covered platform at the door of a house) in front. In its deep gloom (near darkness) we sat down side by side on a wicker settee (a bench made of woven thin sticks).

Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk (the soft deep dark of evening). I saw that turbulent (wild and rough) emotions possessed her (had filled her completely), so I asked what I thought would be some sedative (meant to calm her) questions about her little girl.

“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”

“I wasn’t back from the war.”

“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical (expecting people to act only for themselves) about everything.”

Evidently she had reason to be. (clearly she had good cause to feel that way) I waited but she didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly (weakly) to the subject of her daughter.

“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”

“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently (with her mind elsewhere). “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”

“Very much.”

“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel (I now feel) about—things. Well, (a word used to lead into what comes next, not a comment on how she is) she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where (nobody knew where). I woke up (came out of sleep) out of the ether (the gas the doctors gave her so she would sleep through the birth) with an utterly (completely) abandoned (left alone by everyone) feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept (cried). ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m 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. (Daisy does not want a stupid daughter. She means that a woman who sees her own life clearly will be unhappy in it, so not seeing is kinder.)’

“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people (the most modern in their thinking). And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her (she looked quickly round the room, daring anyone to speak) in a defiant (daring anyone to argue) way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling (exciting to hear) scorn (the feeling that something deserves no respect). “Sophisticated (knowing the world and no longer surprised by it)—God, (a cry of feeling, not talk about religion) I’m sophisticated!”

The instant her voice broke off (stopped suddenly), ceasing (stopping) to compel (force) my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity (not meaning what she said) of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact (take from me by force) a contributory (given as my share) emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough (and it happened just as I expected), in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk (a small pleased, knowing smile) on her lovely face, as if she had asserted (claimed) her membership in a rather distinguished (of high standing, much respected) secret society to which she and Tom belonged.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside, the crimson (deep red) room bloomed with light (was full of light, like a flower fully open). Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post (a popular American weekly magazine of the time)—the words, murmurous (low and soft-sounding) and uninflected (flat, with no rise or fall), running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight (the light from the lamp), bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted (flashed in small quick points) along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter (a quick light movement) of slender (thin and slight) muscles in her arms.

When we came in she held us silent for a moment (kept us from speaking for a moment) with a lifted hand.

“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue (in next week's copy of the magazine, quoting the line printed at the end of a story that continues).”

Her body asserted itself (showed itself plainly) with a restless (unable to keep still) movement of her knee, and she stood up.

“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling (the upper surface of a room). “Time for this good girl (herself, said as a joke) to go to bed.”

“Jordan’s (the name Daisy uses for her friend) going to play in the tournament (a sports competition with many rounds) tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester (a county just north of New York City).”

“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”

I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous (showing that others are worth nothing) expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures (photographs printed in the picture pages of a newspaper) of the sporting life (the rich leisure world around games and racing) at Asheville (a mountain resort town in North Carolina) and Hot Springs and Palm Beach (fashionable American holiday places where rich people went). I had heard some story of her too, a critical (finding fault with her), unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.

“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”

“If you’ll get up.”

“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway (the narrator's family name). See you anon (soon).”

“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together (push the two of you into each other's company). You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets (small cupboards where sheets and towels are kept) and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”

“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”

“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t (ought not) to let her run around the country (travel about on her own) this way.”

“Who oughtn’t (ought not) to?” inquired (asked) Daisy coldly (with no warmth).

“Her family.”

“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.

“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.

“From Louisville (a city in Kentucky, in the American south). Our white girlhood (their years as young daughters of a rich white family, raised to be thought pure and untouched) was passed together there (was spent together there). Our beautiful white—”

“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk (an open, private talk about feelings) on the veranda (an open covered walkway along the outside of a house)?” demanded (asked sharply) Tom suddenly.

“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race (the peoples of northern Europe, treated then as a separate race). Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us (arrived without our noticing) and first thing you know (before you have time to notice)—”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.

I said lightly (in an easy, joking way) 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 (the bright shape of the open lit doorway). As I started my motor (set the car's engine running) Daisy peremptorily (in a sharp way that expects no argument) called: “Wait!

“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West (in the western part of the United States).”

“That’s right,” corroborated (said the same thing) Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”

“It’s a libel (a lie printed about someone, which the law punishes). I’m too poor.”

“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way (her manner turning warm and welcoming once more, like a flower spreading its petals). “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”

Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely (even slightly) engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns (a wedding had to be called out in church three times before it could take place; talk had done that job for him) was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with (seeing a girl as more than a friend) an old friend on account of (because of) rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage (pushed into a wedding by what people say).

Their interest rather touched me (made me feel something for them) and made them less remotely rich (rich in a way that no longer held them at a distance from me)—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted (filled with dislike) as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms (carrying the baby with her)—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” (kept a lover in the city) was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas (he repeated old ideas he had heard from others without understanding them) as if his sturdy (strongly built) physical egotism (the certainty about himself that came from his strong body) no longer nourished (fed) his peremptory (used to being obeyed) heart.

Already it was deep summer on roadhouse (an eating and drinking place out on a main road) roofs and in front of wayside (beside the road) garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate (the piece of ground my house stands on) at West Egg (the less fashionable of the two pieces of land, where Nick lives) I ran the car under its shed (a small rough building for storing things) and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller (a heavy garden cylinder pushed over grass to press it down, left standing there) in the yard. The wind had blown off (had died away to nothing), leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent (going on and on without stopping) organ (a large church instrument that makes sound by blowing air through pipes) sound as the full bellows of the earth (the earth pumping air like the leather bags that feed a fire) blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette (a dark outline shape) of a moving cat wavered (moved in a shaky line) across the moonlight (the light of the moon), and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away (about fifteen metres away) a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion (a very large grand house) and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding (looking at) the silver pepper of the stars (the stars scattered like fine bright grains). Something in his leisurely (slow and easy) movements and the secure position (the firm way his feet were planted) of his feet upon the lawn (the cut grass around the house) suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens (how much of the sky above them belonged to him).

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction (that was enough of a reason to speak to him). But I didn’t call to him, for he gave (because he gave) a sudden intimation (a small sign) that he was content to be alone—he stretched out (put his arms out to their full length) his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn (I was almost certain) he was trembling. Involuntarily (without deciding to) I glanced seaward (out towards the sea)—and distinguished (could see clearly) nothing except a single green light (a small far-off light out on the dark water, the one thing to be seen where he was looking), minute (very small) and far away, that might have been the end of a dock (a landing place where boats tie up). When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished (gone completely from sight), and I was alone again in the unquiet (restless, not still) darkness.