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"
How
do
you
get
to
West
Egg
village
?
"
he
asked
helplessly
.
I
told
him
.
And
as
I
walked
on
I
was
lonely
no
longer
.
I
was
a
guide
,
a
pathfinder
,
an
original
settler
.
He
had
casually
conferred
on
me
the
freedom
of
the
neighborhood
.
And
so
with
the
sunshine
and
the
great
bursts
of
leaves
growing
on
the
trees
,
just
as
things
grow
in
fast
movies
,
I
had
that
familiar
conviction
that
life
was
beginning
over
again
with
the
summer
.
There
was
so
much
to
read
,
for
one
thing
,
and
so
much
fine
health
to
be
pulled
down
out
of
the
young
breath-giving
air
.
I
bought
a
dozen
volumes
on
banking
and
credit
and
investment
securities
,
and
they
stood
on
my
shelf
in
red
and
gold
like
new
money
from
the
mint
,
promising
to
unfold
the
shining
secrets
that
only
Midas
and
Morgan
and
Maecenas
knew
.
And
I
had
the
high
intention
of
reading
many
other
books
besides
.
I
was
rather
literary
in
college
--
one
year
I
wrote
a
series
of
very
solemn
and
obvious
editorials
for
the
"
Yale
News
.
"
--
and
now
I
was
going
to
bring
back
all
such
things
into
my
life
and
become
again
that
most
limited
of
all
specialists
,
the
"
well-rounded
man
.
"
This
is
n't
just
an
epigram
--
life
is
much
more
successfully
looked
at
from
a
single
window
,
after
all
.
It
was
a
matter
of
chance
that
I
should
have
rented
a
house
in
one
of
the
strangest
communities
in
North
America
.
It
was
on
that
slender
riotous
island
which
extends
itself
due
east
of
New
York
--
and
where
there
are
,
among
other
natural
curiosities
,
two
unusual
formations
of
land
.
Twenty
miles
from
the
city
a
pair
of
enormous
eggs
,
identical
in
contour
and
separated
only
by
a
courtesy
bay
,
jut
out
into
the
most
domesticated
body
of
salt
water
in
the
Western
hemisphere
,
the
great
wet
barnyard
of
Long
Island
Sound
.
They
are
not
perfect
ovals
--
like
the
egg
in
the
Columbus
story
,
they
are
both
crushed
flat
at
the
contact
end
--
but
their
physical
resemblance
must
be
a
source
of
perpetual
confusion
to
the
gulls
that
fly
overhead
.
To
the
wingless
a
more
arresting
phenomenon
is
their
dissimilarity
in
every
particular
except
shape
and
size
.
I
lived
at
West
Egg
,
the
--
well
,
the
less
fashionable
of
the
two
,
though
this
is
a
most
superficial
tag
to
express
the
bizarre
and
not
a
little
sinister
contrast
between
them
.
My
house
was
at
the
very
tip
of
the
egg
,
only
fifty
yards
from
the
Sound
,
and
squeezed
between
two
huge
places
that
rented
for
twelve
or
fifteen
thousand
a
season
.
The
one
on
my
right
was
a
colossal
affair
by
any
standard
--
it
was
a
factual
imitation
of
some
Hotel
de
Ville
in
Normandy
,
with
a
tower
on
one
side
,
spanking
new
under
a
thin
beard
of
raw
ivy
,
and
a
marble
swimming
pool
,
and
more
than
forty
acres
of
lawn
and
garden
.
It
was
Gatsby
's
mansion
.
Or
,
rather
,
as
I
did
n't
know
Mr.
Gatsby
,
it
was
a
mansion
inhabited
by
a
gentleman
of
that
name
.
My
own
house
was
an
eyesore
,
but
it
was
a
small
eyesore
,
and
it
had
been
overlooked
,
so
I
had
a
view
of
the
water
,
a
partial
view
of
my
neighbor
's
lawn
,
and
the
consoling
proximity
of
millionaires
--
all
for
eighty
dollars
a
month
.
Across
the
courtesy
bay
the
white
palaces
of
fashionable
East
Egg
glittered
along
the
water
,
and
the
history
of
the
summer
really
begins
on
the
evening
I
drove
over
there
to
have
dinner
with
the
Tom
Buchanans
.
Daisy
was
my
second
cousin
once
removed
,
and
I
'd
known
Tom
in
college
.
And
just
after
the
war
I
spent
two
days
with
them
in
Chicago
.
Her
husband
,
among
various
physical
accomplishments
,
had
been
one
of
the
most
powerful
ends
that
ever
played
football
at
New
Haven
--
a
national
figure
in
a
way
,
one
of
those
men
who
reach
such
an
acute
limited
excellence
at
twenty-one
that
everything
afterward
savors
of
anti-climax
.
His
family
were
enormously
wealthy
--
even
in
college
his
freedom
with
money
was
a
matter
for
reproach
--
but
now
he
'd
left
Chicago
and
come
East
in
a
fashion
that
rather
took
your
breath
away
:
for
instance
,
he
'd
brought
down
a
string
of
polo
ponies
from
Lake
Forest
.
It
was
hard
to
realize
that
a
man
in
my
own
generation
was
wealthy
enough
to
do
that
.
