Chapter 1 excerpt from The Great Gatsby
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that
slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York — and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two
unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a
courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island
5 Sound. They are not perfect ovals — like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end — but their
physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting
phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a
little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between
10 two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard — it
was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy,
and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr.
Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it
had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires
15 — all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered 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. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and
I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New
20 Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything
afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy — even in college his freedom with money was a matter for
reproach — but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down
a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. 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 for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there
25 unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I
didn’t believe it — I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic
turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their
house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The
30 lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning
gardens — finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front
was broken by a line of French windows, glowing 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.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a
supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always
35 leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body — he
seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his
shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body.