Nick Carraway, a Midwesterner bondsman, rents a cottage in West Egg next to the mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby. Drawn into the world of his cousin Daisy and her brutish husband Tom, Nick becomes the confidant for Gatsby's singular, five-year obsession: to win back Daisy and recreate a perfect past, a dream that ultimately collides with reality and ends in violence.
Late in July, Gatsby’s monstrous cream-colored car lurched up Nick’s rocky drive, its three-noted horn blaring. Gatsby stood balanced on the dashboard, a study in restless American energy—his punctilious suit constantly disrupted by a tapping foot or a snapping hand. “Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today,” he announced, “and I thought we’d ride up together.” Nick had found previous conversations with Gatsby disappointingly thin, reducing him to merely the proprietor of a spectacular roadhouse. But this drive changed the calculus. Before they reached West Egg village, Gatsby began leaving sentences unfinished, slapping his knee. “Look here, old sport,” he burst out, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?” He was aware of the rumors and meant to correct them.
He claimed to be the son of wealthy Midwesterners, all dead now, educated at Oxford as a family tradition. But he rushed the phrase “educated at Oxford,” stumbling over it, and Nick saw the lie take shape. When Nick asked what part of the Midwest, Gatsby replied, “San Francisco.” The answer hung, absurd and revealing. He pressed on: after his family’s death, he had lived like a young rajah in European capitals, collecting rubies, hunting, painting—trying to forget some deep sadness. The phrases were so worn they seemed borrowed from a stage melodrama. Then came the war, a “great relief.” He had sought death but survived, he said, with an enchanted life. In the Argonne Forest he had advanced his machine-gun battalion far ahead of the lines, holding a position for two days against three German divisions. Promoted to major, decorated by every Allied government—even little Montenegro. He produced a medal from his pocket: “Orderi di Danilo,” it read, “For Valour Extraordinary.” Then a photograph from Trinity Quad, Oxford, with a cricket bat in his hand and the future Earl of Doncaster at his side. For a moment, Nick believed. He pictured the skins of tigers flaming in a palace on the Grand Canal, rubies glowing to soothe a broken heart.
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