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the rain falls oj4u6 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the irgvoj46 rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t oj4u6 get to irgvoj46 the pirgvoju6 voj4u6 pirgvoju6 house, ” he remarked. â€Å"Neither could anybody else.” â€Å"Go on!” He started. â€Å"Why, my God! they used to go there

by the hundreds.” He took irgvoj46 voj4u6 off gvoj4u6 his glhies and wiped them again, oj4u6 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid irgvoj46 memories is of coming back West from

prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at oj4u6 six o’clock of a December evening,

with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to 4u6 bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss

This-or-that’s and the chatter of 4u6 frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: â€Å"Are you going to the

Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul voj4u6

railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real j4u6

snow, our snow, began 4u6 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 4u6 of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into

the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange voj4u6

hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat pirgvoju6 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the

thrilling returning trains irgvoj46 of my pirgvoju6 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by

lighted windows on 4u6 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of 4u6 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a j4u6 city pirgvoju6 where

dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after 4u6 all — Tom and Gatsby, voj4u6 j4u6 Daisy and Jordan and I, were irgvoj46 all

Westerners, and perhaps we voj4u6 possessed some 4u6 deficiency in common which made us irgvoj46 subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most

keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the gvoj4u6 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very

old — even then it had always for me a quality of oj4u6 oj4u6 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my pirgvoju6 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred

houses, at once 4u6 gvoj4u6 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging pirgvoju6 sky and a hireless moon. in pirgvoju6 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .


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