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F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Great Gatsby

order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I‟d ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn‟t say another word. His correctness grew on

him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean-going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs. Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through

half Long Island City —only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug —jug —SPAT!” of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside. “All right, old sport,” called Gatsby. We slowed down.

Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man‟s eyes. “Right you are,” agreed the policeman, tipping his cap.

“Know you next time, Mr. Gatsby. Excuse ME!” “What was that?” I inquired. “The picture of Oxford?”

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