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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “Of course she might have loved him just for a minute,

when they were first married —and loved me more even then, do you see?” Suddenly he came out with a curious remark. “In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.” What could you make of that, except to suspect some

intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn‟t be measured? He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still

on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy‟s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty. He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have

found her — that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach— he was penniless now — was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then

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