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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby‟s books in the library one night three months before. I‟d never seen him since then. I don‟t know how he knew

about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby‟s grave. I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was

already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn‟t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur, “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn‟t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there

by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time.

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