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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man.

He told me all this very much later, but I‟ve put it down

here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumors about his antecedents, which weren‟t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of misconceptions away. It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For

several weeks I didn‟t see him or hear his voice on the phone — mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt — but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn‟t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn‟t happened before. They were a party of three on horseback —Tom and a man

named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously. “I‟m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his

porch. “I‟m delighted that you dropped in.” As though they cared!

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