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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was „You can‟t live forever; you can‟t live forever.‟” She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her

artificial laughter. “My dear,” she cried, “I‟m going to give you this dress as

soon as I‟m through with it. I‟ve got to get another one to- morrow. I‟m going to make a list of all the things I‟ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ash-trays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother‟s grave that‟ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won‟t forget all the things I got to do.” It was nine o‟clock — almost immediately afterward I

looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the remains of the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon. The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind

eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away. Some time toward midnight

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