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the rain falls exm96 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the 78lwexm6 rain to the cars.




Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t exm96 get to 78lwexm6 the h78lwex96 wexm96 h78lwex96 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 78lwexm6 wexm96 off lwexm96 his glhies and wiped them again, exm96 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid 78lwexm6 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 exm96 six o’clock of a December evening,



with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to m96 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 m96 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 wexm96


railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real xm96



snow, our snow, began m96 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights m96 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 wexm96


hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat h78lwex96 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the



thrilling returning trains 78lwexm6 of my h78lwex96 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by


lighted windows on m96 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of m96 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a xm96 city h78lwex96 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 m96 all — Tom and Gatsby, wexm96 xm96 Daisy and Jordan and I, were 78lwexm6 all



Westerners, and perhaps we wexm96 possessed some m96 deficiency in common which made us 78lwexm6 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 lwexm96 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very



old — even then it had always for me a quality of exm96 exm96 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my h78lwex96 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred



houses, at once m96 lwexm96 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging h78lwex96 sky and a hireless moon. in h78lwex96 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .








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