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samedi, décembre 03, 2016

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the rain falls vt6si on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the gudyvt6i rain to the cars.

Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t vt6si get to gudyvt6i the 8gudyvtsi yvt6si 8gudyvtsi 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 gudyvt6i yvt6si off dyvt6si his glhies and wiped them again, vt6si outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid gudyvt6i 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 vt6si six o’clock of a December evening,

with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to 6si 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 6si 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 yvt6si

railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real t6si

snow, our snow, began 6si to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights 6si 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 yvt6si

hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat 8gudyvtsi or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the

thrilling returning trains gudyvt6i of my 8gudyvtsi youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by

lighted windows on 6si the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of 6si those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a t6si city 8gudyvtsi 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 6si all — Tom and Gatsby, yvt6si t6si Daisy and Jordan and I, were gudyvt6i all

Westerners, and perhaps we yvt6si possessed some 6si deficiency in common which made us gudyvt6i 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 dyvt6si Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very

old — even then it had always for me a quality of vt6si vt6si distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my 8gudyvtsi more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred

houses, at once 6si dyvt6si conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging 8gudyvtsi sky and a hireless moon. in 8gudyvtsi the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .

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