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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful ——” I couldn‟t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he

had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made. . . . I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt

suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewelry store to buy a pearl necklace — or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons — rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. Gatsby‟s house was still empty when I left — the grass on

his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn‟t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train.

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