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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby “Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly. “What‟s

your opinion of me, anyhow?” A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves. “Well, I‟m going to tell you something about my life,” he

interrupted. “I don‟t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.” So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavored

conversation in his halls. “I‟ll tell you God‟s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered

divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the Middle West —all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford, because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.” He looked at me sideways —and I knew why Jordan Baker

had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it, or choked on it, as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt, his whole statement fell to pieces, and I wondered if there wasn‟t something a little sinister about him, after all. “What part of the Middle West?” I inquired casually. “San Francisco.” “I see.” “My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”

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