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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “When I said you were a particular friend of Tom‟s, he

started to abandon the whole idea. He doesn‟t know very much about Tom, though he says he‟s read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy‟s name.” It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I

put my arm around Jordan‟s golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner. Suddenly I wasn‟t thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: “There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.” “And Daisy ought to have something in her life,”

murmured Jordan to me. “Does she want to see Gatsby?” “She‟s not to know about it. Gatsby doesn‟t want her to

know. You‟re just supposed to invite her to tea.” We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the facade of

Fifty-ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening

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