F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening and closing of a hand. He saw me looking with admiration at his car. “It‟s pretty, isn‟t it, old sport?” He jumped off to give me a
better view. “Haven‟t you ever seen it before?” I‟d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color,
bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool- boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory, we started to town. I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past
month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say: So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate road-house next door. And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn‟t reached
West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit.