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dimanche, décembre 25, 2016

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the rain falls mpl93 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rk7fmpl3 rain to the cars.




Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t mpl93 get to rk7fmpl3 the urk7fmp93 fmpl93 urk7fmp93 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 rk7fmpl3 fmpl93 off 7fmpl93 his glhies and wiped them again, mpl93 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid rk7fmpl3 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 mpl93 six o’clock of a December evening,



with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to l93 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 l93 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 fmpl93


railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real pl93



snow, our snow, began l93 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights l93 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 fmpl93


hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat urk7fmp93 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the



thrilling returning trains rk7fmpl3 of my urk7fmp93 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by


lighted windows on l93 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of l93 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a pl93 city urk7fmp93 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 l93 all — Tom and Gatsby, fmpl93 pl93 Daisy and Jordan and I, were rk7fmpl3 all



Westerners, and perhaps we fmpl93 possessed some l93 deficiency in common which made us rk7fmpl3 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 7fmpl93 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very



old — even then it had always for me a quality of mpl93 mpl93 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my urk7fmp93 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred



houses, at once l93 7fmpl93 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging urk7fmp93 sky and a hireless moon. in urk7fmp93 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .








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