Daisy Buchanan was mad. It was 18. 30, and the party Daisy and her husband Tom were invited to had already started. Daisy had been waiting for Tom for an hour and a half already, sitting all dressed, with her perfect make-up on the sofa in the living-room, and staring on the big clock above the fireplace. Minutes lapsed into hours, and with each move of the arrow-shaped pointer Daisy’s mood became lower. “Damn, he promised to turn up at seventeen o’clock” – she thought. “I just hate those horse races. He forgets about everything, when seeing those huge beasts.
What’s all about those horses? Just huge, scary animals that run the racetrack round after round. ” – For once more Daisy felt that her husband had some fascinating life, the life she wasn’t allowed to enter. The doors to his personal heaven were guarded by Tom’s and his friends’ assurances that “It’s nothing interesting” and “You’ll be bored to tears, sweetie. ” Suddenly Daisy felt tears coming her eyes, but at this very moment the door squeaked, and the woman saw Tom, her husband, entering the room. His eyes flashed, he was smiling.
“What’s up, honey? ” – he asked looking surprised. “Why are you sitting here, all dressed up? “. Daisy just looked at him, without saying anything. “Oh, have I forgotten something? ” – Tom asked. “Is it about that party at Margaret’s? ” – Daisy just nodded. “Okay, lets go, darling. We’ll be just a little bit late, it’s nothing serious. ” Tom and Daisy walked out to the yard, and went to the car. Daisy felt another spasm of anger, when she saw his car for once more. Another expensive accessory, a shiny iron beast Tom loves more than her.
Nick Carraway Nick Carraway is the narrator of the entire novel, he is also the protagonist of his own plot. He is a practical and conservative man who turns thirty during the course of the story. Raised in a small town in the Midwest, in New York he is in the bond business. He rents a small bungalow out from the city on a fashionable island known as West Egg. His next door neighbor is Jay Gatsby, ...
Daisy understood all of the ridiculousness of this anger and jealousy, but just couldn’t help them, remembering all the long hours Tom spent near his car, and inside it, all of the mornings, when it took Daisy’s husband from her into the man’s world, a reality were money, horses and whisky had their own sacral meaning, and where no women were allowed. The car was standing there, huge, and powerful, and bright in the fading rays of the evening sun. Bright red in the daylight, it now seemed to have a deeper, more dangerous bloody shade. Daisy didn’t like this color, as it seemed to her there were stains of blood on the car’s shiny sides.
The young woman shook her head, got into the car, and Tom threw out the clutch. The car moved through the interlacement of the West Egg streets. Daisy kept silence, hoping that Tom would feel, how angry and hurt she is. But the man seemed not to care, whistling some silly tune, looking confident, and satisfy. Suddenly Daisy heard the screech of the brake, and Tom’s irritated shout “Damn niggers! Don’t you have eyes for to see the car, you, little goose” – a teenage black girl, sitting right in front of the car, had tears on her cheeks, Daisy noted automatically. “Just get out of my way! ” – Tom continued. “But Tom, you hit her!
” – Daisy exclaimed. “Shut up” – ordered her husband, not even paying a look to her . Daisy wanted to cry, to shout at him, to say he had no right to treat her like that, but the insuperable wave of fragility covered her, and she kept silent for the time need to get to Margaret’s house. It was all as usual at Margaret’s – lot’s of people, man dressed in expensive suits, with women in their boutique dresses. The jewelry with the stones too huge to look natural, cocktails, the smell of perfumes, and smiles, smiles, smiles. Tom and Daisy felt comfortable in that setting, they knew most of the attendants, and most of the guests knew them.
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald was an American writer of novels, and short stories that epitomized the mood and manners of the 1920's, the Jazz Age, as it was called. Fitzgerald was born on September 24, 1896, in Saint Paul, Minnesota, and attended Princeton University, where he mostly ignored formal study, instead receiving his education from writers and critics, such as Edmund Wilson, who remained ...
The party was still at the beginning, thus there was still lots of drinks for to choose. “Well, I’ve earned a right to relax a little” – thought Daisy. Her body and mind longed for alcohol, for just a little bit of it that would allow muscles to get rid of all of that strain, and mind to clear from all thoughts. An hour went by, taliking, drinking, and smiling, smiling all the time. Daisy almost never got tired of the dialogues about the new fashion trends, fashionable books and plays, an, of course, gossips about friends and acquaintances.
Information was one of her favorite substances; it made her feel powerful, and meaningful. She discussed Lily Carpenter’s new hat, and agreed it was flashy, asked how college was going for Mrs. Ratman’s son Tony, and noted she had known this boy will succeed, and heard about Emily Griff’s new lover. Almost lost in the swirl of emotion, in the flood of information, Daisy suddenly felt she would die, if she didn’t have just few gulps of fresh evening air. She excused herself, and made her way through the half-drunk mass of guests to the terrace. It was quiet there, so quiet that Daisy could hear her own heart beating.
After few moments of silence she began to distinguish some other sounds, except for her heartbeat. It was giggling, whisper, and the sound of kisses. Guided by some naughty curiosity Daisy walked few steps for to see the people in the far corner of the terrace. Tom, her husband stand there, embracing a tender woman in black. Daisy didn’t try to distinguish her face. She just went back to the house, to smiling and chatting. “Darling, are you ok? ” – She heard a voice from behind. Her boy instinctively pulled as Tom’s arm touched her naked shoulder. “Just bring me one more drink please. “