I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over. ” “Who? ” he demanded rudely. “Carraway. ” “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him. ” Abruptly he slammed the door. My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all. Next day Gatsby called me on the phone. Going away? ” I inquired. “No, old sport. ” “I hear you fired all your servants. ” “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often — in the afternoons. ” So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes. “They’re some people Wolfsheim wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel. ” “I see. ” He was calling up at Daisy’s request — would I come to lunch at her house to-morrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up.
And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene — especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden. The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry.
The Essay on Nick Carraway Gatsby One Characters
... from him. Nick illustrates his loyalty as Gatsby s best friend well. In conclusion, Nick Carraway is character who is quite the ... because he is the narrator. He goes to To mand Daisy s house where he meets Jordan Baker, a woman with whom ... long before was there to mourn Gatsby death, along with Nick, Mr. Gate, and the servants. The brutal reality is that even ...
Her pocket-book slapped to the floor. “Oh, my! ” she gasped. I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it — but every one near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same. “Hot! ” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! hot! hot! hot! Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it.. .? ” My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That any one should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart! . . Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door. “The master’s body! ” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it — it’s far too hot to touch this noon! ” What he really said was: “Yes . . . yes . . . I’ll see. ” He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats. “Madame expects you in the salon! ” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life.
His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house — —” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car. ” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering — look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby.
By God it was awful ——” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . . I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child.
The Essay on Car Didn Made Time
My lungs filled with thick, sticky fog at three o'clock in the morning. It made the morning look vile and shivering. My hands were cold as ice. I am just about to get in my boyfriend's blue jetta. I had a feeling in my stomach that I shouldn't have got in his car. Of coarse I denied my self-conscious. Drugs and alcohol are flowing through our tired bodies. I was so eager to get into my warm bed. ...
Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace — or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons — rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left — the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train.
I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more.
On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand. Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes — a fresh, green breast of the new world.
Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock.
The Essay on Night Shift One Didn Care
Night Shift I'm not sure what attraction I feel towards working in a hospital. When I was younger I hated even thinking about them. They smelled funny, everyone looked nervous, and a lot of places were off limits. But I think the thing that scared me the most was the thought of needles. Yet after working on the night shift for about a year, I've found hospitals to be more than just a place where ...
He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night. Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter — to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning —— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. THE END.
