《了不起的盖茨比》：
There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelfin red and gold like new money from the mint， promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college-one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the 'Yale News'-and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists， the 'well-rounded man.' This isn't just an epigram life is much more successfully looked at from a single window， after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are， among other natural curiosities， two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a
pair of enormous eggs， identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay， jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Westem
Hemisphere， the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals-like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end-but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg， the-well， the less fashionable of the two， though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg， only fifty yards from the Sound， and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard-it was a factual
mitation of some H.tel de Ville in Normandy， with a tower on one side， spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy， and a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather， as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore， but it was a small eye-sore， and it had been overlooked， so I had a view of the water， a partial view of my neighbor's lawn， and the consoling proximity of millionaires-all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of f8shionable East Egg glittered along the water，and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once rcmoved and I'd known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband， among various physical accomplishments， had been one of the most powerful cnds that ever played football at New Haven-a national figure in a way， one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy-even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach-but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away： for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own
generation was wealthy enough to do that.
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