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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

make love to your wife. Well, if that‟s the idea you can count me out. . . . Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they‟ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself

standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We‟re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I‟m not very popular. I don‟t give big parties. I

suppose you‟ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh

whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I‟ve got something to tell YOU, old sport ——” began

Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don‟t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let‟s all

go home. Why don‟t we all go home?” “That‟s a good idea.” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody

wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn‟t love you,” said Gatsby. “She‟s never

loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.

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