Unknowingly she saw her own tragedies mirrored in his face.
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 unaffected 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.
Do all the Americans in Paris just shoot at each other all the time?
Wann immer du an jemandem etwas auszusetzen hast”, sagte er, “vergiss nicht, dass nicht alle auf dieser Welt einen so leichten Start hatten wie du.
I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer. 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.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descen.
Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now – Monsignor Darcy.
I did not faintly resemble a rose.
Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body –.
I keep it always full of interesting people, night and day. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people.
I’d be a God Damned fool to live anywhere else.
Not seeing,’ said Gatsby. ‘No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes – ’but there was no laughter in his eyes, ’to think that you didn’t know.
It’s up to us who are the dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control of things.
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.
I suppose she talks, and – eats, and everything.
I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house – the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.
There was some element of loneliness involved- so easy to be loved- so hard to love.
There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.
He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky. ‘I know myself,’ he cried, ’but that is all.
She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as someone he knew a long time ago.
Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea.