F. Scott Fitzgerald 1925This is a poignant love story: Jay Gatsby, a self-made millionaire whose past, present and future were molded by his unequivocal love for Daisy Buchanan. My wish is that Daisy could have also loved him back as much.
"In my younger and vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,"he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.""
"This is a valley of ashes-a fantastic farm where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air."
"He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American-that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games."
"They're such beautiful shirts," she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. "It makes me sad because I've never seen such-such beautiful shirts before."
"His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy's white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed the girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete."
"Of course she might have loved him, just for a minute, when they were first married-and loved me more even then, do you see?"
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
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