F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby “This is a terrible mistake,” he said, shaking his head from
side to side, “a terrible, terrible mistake.” “You‟re just embarrassed, that‟s all,” and luckily I added:
“Daisy‟s embarrassed too.” “She‟s embarrassed?” he repeated incredulously. “Just as much as you are.” “Don‟t talk so loud.” “You‟re acting like a little boy,” I broke out impatiently.
“Not only that, but you‟re rude. Daisy‟s sitting in there all alone.” He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with
unforgettable reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other room. I walked out the back way — just as Gatsby had when he
had made his nervous circuit of the house half an hour before — and ran for a huge black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby‟s gardener, abounded in small, muddy swamps and prehistoric marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except Gatsby‟s enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour. A brewer had built it early in the “period.” craze, a decade before, and there was a story that