It just showsyou."He opened it at the back c

b<a title="ut he was already " href="https://pims.edu/?s=%eb%8f%84%ea%b3%a1%ed%82%a4%ec%8a%a4%eb%b0%a9%e2%98%82pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7%ec%bb%b4%e2%99%93%ec%82%ac%eb%8b%b9%eb%a0%88%ea%b9%85%ec%8a%a4%eb%a3%b8%e2%99%a5%ec%95%88%ec%96%91%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc  " target="_blank">ut he was already t</a>oofar away and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisyhadn't sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur"Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on," and then the owl-eyedman said "Amen to that," in a brave voice.We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-Eyes spoketo me by the gate."I couldn't get to the house," he remarked."Neither co<a title="uld anybody else." href="https://thebridge.in/search?search=%ec%9e%a0%ec%8b%a4%eb%a0%88%ea%b9%85%ec%8a%a4%eb%a3%b8+www.pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%99%93%ec%88%98%ec%84%9c%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc%e2%86%97%ec%84%9c%ec%b4%88%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc  " target="_blank">uld anybody else</a>.""Go on!" He started. "Why, my God! they used to go there by thehundreds."He took off his glasses and wiped them again outside and in."The poor son-of-a-bitch," he said.One of my most vivid memories is of coming back west from prep schooland later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther thanChicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o'clock of aDecember <a title="evening with a few Chi" href="https://www.indifferentlanguages.com/words/%ec%86%8c%ec%82%ac%ec%85%94%ec%b8%a0%eb%a3%b8%e2%98%9cpukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%9e%8a%ec%9a%a9%ec%82%b0%ec%a3%bc%ec%a0%90%e2%9c%8f%ec%a4%91%eb%9e%91%ea%b1%b4%eb%a7%88  " target="_blank">evening with a few Ch</a>icago friends already caught up intotheir own holiday gayeties to bid them a hasty goodbye. I rememberthe fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This or That's andthe chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead aswe caught sight of old acquaintances and the matchings of invitations:"Are you going to the Ordways'? the Herseys'? the Schultzes'?"and the long green ti<br><a title="ckets claspe" href="https://thebridge.in/search?search=%ec%88%98%ec%9b%90%ec%a3%bc%ec%a0%90%e2%9d%a4www.pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7%ec%bb%b4%e2%98%85%ec%88%98%ec%84%9c%eb%a0%88%ea%b9%85%ec%8a%a4%eb%a3%b8%e2%97%86%ec%95%88%ec%96%91%ec%86%8c%ed%94%84%ed%8a%b8%eb%a3%b8  " target="_blank">ckets clasped</a> tight in our gloved hands.And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. PaulRailroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks besidethe gate.When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow,began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and thedim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild bracecame sudden<a title="ly into the a" href="https://www.indifferentlanguages.com/words/%eb%8f%84%ea%b3%a1%ec%95%88%eb%a7%88%e2%98%85pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%99%8f%ec%8b%a0%ec%82%ac%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc%e2%9d%a4%ec%97%b0%ec%88%98%ec%86%8c%ed%94%84%ed%8a%b8%eb%a3%b8  " target="_blank">ly into the air.</a> We drew in deep breaths of it as we walkedback from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of ouridentity with this country for one strange hour before we meltedindistinguishably into it again.That's my middle west--not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swedetowns but the thrilling, returning trains of my youth and the streetlamps and sleigh bells in the frosty da<a title="rk and the s" href="https://www.indifferentlanguages.com/words/%ea%b0%95%eb%82%a8%ed%82%a4%ec%8a%a4%eb%b0%a9%e2%9d%87pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7%ec%bb%b4%e2%9d%a4%ec%8b%a0%ec%82%ac%ec%85%94%ec%b8%a0%eb%a3%b8%e2%9d%a4%ea%b8%88%ec%a0%95%ea%b1%b4%eb%a7%88  " target="_blank">rk and the shadows of h</a>ollywreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, alittle solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacentfrom growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings arestill called through decades by a family's name. I see now that thishas been a story of the West, after all--Tom and Gatsby, Daisy andJordan and I, were all Westerners, an<a title="d perhaps we possesse" href="https://www.indifferentlanguages.com/words/%ec%98%a4%ea%b8%88%eb%a0%88%ea%b9%85%ec%8a%a4%eb%a3%b8%e2%98%82pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%98%82%ec%9e%a5%ec%95%88%ed%9c%b4%ea%b2%8c%ed%85%94%e2%99%8b%eb%b6%80%ec%b2%9c%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc  " target="_blank">d perhaps we possesse</a><br>d somedeficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly awareof its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond theOhio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only thechildren and the very old--even then it had always for me a quality ofdistortion. West Egg especially st<a title="ill figures i" href="https://www.indifferentlanguages.com/words/%ec%95%95%ea%b5%ac%ec%a0%95%ed%82%a4%ec%8a%a4%eb%b0%a9%e2%99%93www.pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%9d%a4%eb%b6%80%ec%b2%9c%ed%9c%b4%ea%b2%8c%ed%85%94+%ec%9d%80%ed%8f%89%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc  " target="_blank">ill figures in my mo</a>re fantasticdreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, atonce conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhangingsky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dresssuits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies adrunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles overthe side, sparkles cold wit<br><a title="h jewels. Grave" href="https://thebridge.in/search?search=%ec%98%a4%ea%b8%88%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc%e2%9d%87www.pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%99%93%ec%88%98%ec%84%9c%ec%85%94%ec%b8%a0%eb%a3%b8%e2%99%8f%ec%88%98%ec%98%81%ec%98%a4%ed%94%bc  " target="_blank">h jewels. Gravely </a>the men turn in at ahouse--the wrong house. But no one knows the woman's name, and no onecares.After Gatsby's death the East was haunted for me like that, distortedbeyond my eyes' power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittleleaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on theline I decided to come back home.There was one thing to be done before I left, an <a title="awkward, unple" href="https://pims.edu/?s=%ec%84%b1%ec%88%98%ec%a3%bc%ec%a0%90+pukpuk1%eb%8b%b7com%e2%9d%84%ec%9e%a0%ec%8b%a4%ec%95%88%eb%a7%88%e2%9c%8f%ec%9e%a5%ec%95%88%ea%b1%b4%eb%a7%88  " target="_blank">awkward, unpleasantthing</a> that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted toleave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferentsea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over andaround what had happened to us together and what had happenedafterward to me, and she lay perfectly still listening in a bigchair.She was dressed to play golf and I remember thinki<a title="