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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

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. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the

impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked — and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. “Now, don‟t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he

seemed to say, “just because I‟m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. “I‟ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about

restlessly. Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand

along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore. “It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We‟ll go inside.”

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