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Henceforth, today…

I’m going to grace you with Chapter 1 of one of the greatest novels ever written.

The Great Gatsby

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter 1

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave
me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind
ever since.
‘Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,’ he told me,
‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had
the advantages that you’ve had.’
He didn’t say any more but we’ve always been unusually
communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he

meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m in-
clined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up

many curious natures to me and also made me the victim
of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to
detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a
normal person, and so it came about that in college I was
unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy

to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the con-
fidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep,

preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some

unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quiver-
ing on the horizon — for the intimate revelations of young

men or at least the terms in which they express them are
usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.
Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still
a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my fa-
ther snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat a sense
of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at
birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to
the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded
on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point
I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from
the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in

uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I want-
ed no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses

into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his
name to this book, was exempt from my reaction — Gatsby

who represented everything for which I have an unaffect-
ed scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful

gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him,
some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he
were related to one of those intricate machines that register
earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness
had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which
is dignified under the name of the ‘creative temperament’ —
it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness
such as I have never found in any other person and which
it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby turned
out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what
foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily

closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-
winded elations of men.

My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in
this middle-western city for three generations. The Car-
raways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that

we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the ac-
tual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother who

came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and

started the wholesale hardware business that my father car-
ries on today.

I never saw this great-uncle but I’m supposed to look
like him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled
painting that hangs in Father’s office. I graduated from New
Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father,

and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic mi-
gration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid

so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the
warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like
the ragged edge of the universe — so I decided to go east and
learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond
business so I supposed it could support one more single
man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were

choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, ‘Why — ye-
es’ with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance

me for a year and after various delays I came east, perma-
nently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was
a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns

and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office sug-
gested that we take a house together in a commuting town

it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather
beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the
last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went
out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a
few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish

woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and mut-
tered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.

It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man,
more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

‘How do you get to West Egg village?’ he asked helpless-
ly paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked — and
there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
‘Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,’
he seemed to say, ‘just because I’m stronger and more of a
man than you are.’ We were in the same Senior Society, and
while we were never intimate I always had the impression
that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with
some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
‘I’ve got a nice place here,’ he said, his eyes flashing about
restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat
hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken

Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-
nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore.

‘It belonged to Demaine the oil man.’ He turned me
around again, politely and abruptly. ‘We’ll go inside.’

We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-
colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French

windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming
white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a
little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room,
blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags,
twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the

ceiling — and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, mak-
ing a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.

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The only completely stationary object in the room was an
enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed
up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both
in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if
they had just been blown back in after a short flight around
the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to

the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a pic-
ture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchana.

I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me ques-
tions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that

the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrange-
ment of notes that will never be played again. Her face was

sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a
bright passionate mouth — but there was an excitement in
her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to

forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered ‘Listen,’ a prom-
ise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since

‘Why, no,’ I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
‘Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The

idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be — will be ut-
terly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.’

‘Tom’s getting very profound,’ said Daisy with an expres-
sion of unthoughtful sadness. ‘He reads deep books with

long words in them. What was that word we — — ‘

‘Well, these books are all scientific,’ insisted Tom, glanc-
ing at her impatiently. ‘This fellow has worked out the whole

thing. It’s up to us who are the dominant race to watch out
or these other races will have control of things.’

‘We’ve got to beat them down,’ whispered Daisy, wink-
ing ferociously toward the fervent sun.

‘You ought to live in California — ’ began Miss Baker but
Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
‘This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are and

you are and — — ’ After an infinitesimal hesitation he in-
cluded Daisy with a slight nod and she winked at me again.

‘ — and we’ve produced all the things that go to make civili-
zation — oh, science and art and all that. Do you see?’

There was something pathetic in his concentration as if
his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to
him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone
rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon
the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
‘I’ll tell you a family secret,’ she whispered enthusiasti-
cally. ‘It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about
the butler’s nose?’
‘That’s why I came over tonight.’

‘Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the sil-
ver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver

service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from
morning till night until finally it began to affect his nose —
— ‘
‘Things went from bad to worse,’ suggested Miss Baker.
‘Yes. Things went from bad to worse until finally he had
to give up his position.’

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affec-
tion upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward

breathlessly as I listened — then the glow faded, each light
deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a
pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to
Tom’s ear whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair
and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened
something within her Daisy leaned forward again, her voice
glowing and singing.
‘I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a —
of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?’ She turned to Miss
Baker for confirmation. ‘An absolute rose?’
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She
was only extemporizing but a stirring warmth flowed from
her as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed
in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly
she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and
went into the house.

Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance conscious-
ly devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat

up alertly and said ‘Sh!’ in a warning voice. A subdued im-
passioned murmur was audible in the room beyond and

Miss Baker leaned forward, unashamed, trying to hear. The
murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down,
mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
‘This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor — — ’ I
said.
‘Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.’
‘Is something happening?’ I inquired innocently.

‘You mean to say you don’t know?’ said Miss Baker, hon-
estly surprised. ‘I thought everybody knew.’

‘I don’t.’
‘Why — — ’ she said hesitantly, ‘Tom’s got some woman
in New York.’
‘Got some woman?’ I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.

‘She might have the decency not to telephone him at din-
ner-time. Don’t you think?’

Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the
flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots and Tom
and Daisy were back at the table.
‘It couldn’t be helped!’ cried Daisy with tense gayety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and
then at me and continued: ‘I looked outdoors for a minute
and it’s very romantic outdoors.
On in a convinced way. ‘Everybody thinks so — the most ad-
vanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen

everything and done everything.’ Her eyes flashed around
her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with
thrilling scorn. ‘Sophisticated — God, I’m sophisticated!’
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my
attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she
had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening

had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emo-
tion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she

looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face as if
she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished
secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and
Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read
aloud to him from the ‘Saturday Evening Post’ — the words,

murmurous and uninflected, running together in a sooth-
ing tune. The lamp-light, bright on his boots and dull on

the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper
as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her
arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with
a lifted hand.

Whats that over there? 👉

‘To be continued,’ she said, tossing the magazine on the
table, ‘in our very next issue.’
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her
knee, and she stood up.
‘Ten o’clock,’ she remarked, apparently finding the time
on the ceiling. ‘Time for this good girl to go to bed.’

‘Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,’ ex-
plained Daisy, ‘over at Westchester.’

‘Oh, — you’re JORdan Baker.’

I knew now why her face was familiar — its pleasing con-
temptuous expression had looked out at me from many

rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and
Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her

too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgot-
ten long ago.

‘Good night,’ she said softly. ‘Wake me at eight, won’t
you.’
‘If you’ll get up.’
‘I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.’
‘Of course you will,’ confirmed Daisy. ‘In fact I think
I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort

of — oh — fling you together. You know — lock you up acci-
dentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat,

and all that sort of thing — — ‘
‘Good night,’ called Miss Baker from the stairs. ‘I haven’t
heard a word.’
‘She’s a nice girl,’ said Tom after a moment. ‘They oughtn’t
to let her run around the country this way.’
‘Who oughtn’t to?’ inquired Daisy coldly.
‘Her family.’

‘Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Be-
sides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s

going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I
think the home influence will be very good for her.’

Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in si-
lence.

‘Is she from New York?’ I asked quickly.

‘From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed togeth-
er there. Our beautiful white — — ‘

‘Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the ve-
randa?’ demanded Tom suddenly. ‘Did I?’ She looked at me. ‘I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did.
It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know — — ‘
‘Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,’ he advised
me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few
minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door
with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light.
As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called ‘Wait!
‘I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We
heard you were engaged to a girl out West.’
‘That’s right,’ corroborated Tom kindly. ‘We heard that
you were engaged.’
‘It’s libel. I’m too poor.’

‘But we heard it,’ insisted Daisy, surprising me by open-
ing up again in a flower-like way. ‘We heard it from three

Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms — but
apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for
Tom, the fact that he ‘had some woman in New York’ was
really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a
book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale
ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished
his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and
in front of wayside garages, where new red gas-pumps sat
out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West
Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an
abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off,
leaving a loud bright night with wings beating in the trees
and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth

blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wa-
vered across the moonlight and turning my head to watch

it I saw that I was not alone — fifty feet away a figure had
emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and
was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the

silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely move-
ments and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn

suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to deter-
mine what share was his of our local heavens.

I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him
at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I
didn’t call to him for he gave a sudden intimation that he
was content to be alone — he stretched out his arms toward
the dark water in a curious way, and far as I was from him I
could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced
seaward — and distinguished nothing except a single green
light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of
a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished,
and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

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