Desember 03, 2016

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the rain falls j1ph7 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the b8vcj1p7 rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t j1ph7 get to b8vcj1p7 the nb8vcj1h7 cj1ph7 nb8vcj1h7 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 b8vcj1p7 cj1ph7 off vcj1ph7 his glhies and wiped them again, j1ph7 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid b8vcj1p7 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 j1ph7 six o’clock of a December evening,

with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to ph7 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 ph7 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 cj1ph7

railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real 1ph7

snow, our snow, began ph7 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights ph7 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 cj1ph7

hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat nb8vcj1h7 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the

thrilling returning trains b8vcj1p7 of my nb8vcj1h7 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by

lighted windows on ph7 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of ph7 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a 1ph7 city nb8vcj1h7 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 ph7 all — Tom and Gatsby, cj1ph7 1ph7 Daisy and Jordan and I, were b8vcj1p7 all

Westerners, and perhaps we cj1ph7 possessed some ph7 deficiency in common which made us b8vcj1p7 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 vcj1ph7 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very

old — even then it had always for me a quality of j1ph7 j1ph7 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my nb8vcj1h7 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred

houses, at once ph7 vcj1ph7 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging nb8vcj1h7 sky and a hireless moon. in nb8vcj1h7 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .