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rriblyblackandwet,thenMr.Gatzandtheministerandmeinthelimousine,andalittlelaterfourorfiveservantsandthepostmanfromWestEgg,inGatsby’sstationwagon,allwettotheskin.AswestartedthroughthegateintothecemeteryIheardacarstopandthenthesoundofsomeonesplashingafterusoverthesoggyground.Ilookedaround.Itwasthemanwithowl-eyedglasseswhomIhadfoundmarvellingoverGatsby’sbooksinthelibraryonenightthreemonthsbefore. I’dneverseenhimsincethen.Idon’tknowhowheknewaboutthefuneral,orevenhisname.Therainpoureddownhisthickglasses,andhetookthemoffandwipedthemtoseetheprotectingcanvasunrolledfromGatsby’sgrave. ItriedtothinkaboutGatsbythenforamoment,buthewasalreadytoofaraway,andIcouldonlyremember,withoutresentment,thatDaisyhadn’tsentamessageoraflower.DimlyIheardsomeonemurmur“Blessedarethedeadthattherainfallson,”andthentheowl-eyedmansaid“Amentothat,”inabravevoice. Westraggleddownquicklythroughtheraintothecars.Owl-eyesspoketomebythegate. “Icouldn’tgettothehouse,”heremarked. “Neithercouldanybodyelse.” “Goon!”Hestarted.“Why,myGod!theyusedtogotherebythehundreds.” Hetookoffhisglassesandwipedthemagain,outsideandin. “Thepoorson-of-a-bitch,”hesaid. OneofmymostvividmemoriesisofcomingbackWestfromprepschoolandlaterfromcollegeatChristmastime.ThosewhowentfartherthanChicagowouldgatherintheolddimUnionStationatsixo’clockofaDecemberevening,withafewChicagofriends,alreadycaughtupintotheirownholidaygaieties,tobidthemahastygoodbye.IrememberthefurcoatsofthegirlsreturningfromMissThis-or-That’sandthechatteroffrozenbreathandthehandswavingoverheadaswecaughtsightofoldacquaintances,andthematchingsofinvitations:“AreyougoingtotheOrdways’?theHerseys’?theSchultzes’?”andthelonggreenticketsclaspedtightinourglovedhands.AndlastthemurkyyellowcarsoftheChicago,MilwaukeeandSt.PaulrailroadlookingcheerfulasChristmasitselfonthetracksbesidethegate. Whenwepulledoutintothewinternightandtherealsnow,oursnow,begantostretchoutbesideusandtwinkleagainstthewindows,andthedimlightsofsmallWisconsinstationsmovedby,asharpwildbracecamesuddenlyintotheair.Wedrewindeepbreathsofitaswewalkedbackfromdinnerthroughthecoldvestibules,unutterablyawareofouridentitywiththiscountryforonestrangehour,beforewemeltedindistinguishablyintoitagain. That’smyMiddleWest—notthewheatortheprairiesorthelostSwedetowns,butthethrillingreturningtrainsofmyyouth,andthestreetlampsandsleighbellsinthefrostydarkandtheshadowsofhollywreathsthrownbylightedwindowsonthesnow.Iampartofthat,alittlesolemnwiththefeelofthoselongwinters,alittlecomplacentfromgrowingupintheCarrawayhouseinacitywheredwellingsarestillcalledthroughdecadesbyafamily’sname.IseenowthatthishasbeenastoryoftheWest,afterall—TomandGatsby,DaisyandJordanandI,wereallWesterners,andperhapswepossessedsomedeficiencyincommonwhichmadeussubtlyunadaptabletoEasternlife. EvenwhentheEastexcitedmemost,evenwhenIwasmostkeenlyawareofitssuperioritytothebored,sprawling,swollentownsbeyondtheOhio,withtheirinterminableinquisitionswhichsparedonlythechildrenandtheveryold—eventhenithadalwaysformeaqualityofdistortion.WestEgg,especially,stillfiguresinmymorefantasticdreams.IseeitasanightscenebyElGreco:ahundredhouses,atonceconventionalandgrotesque,crouchingunderasullen,overhangingskyandalustrelessmoon.Intheforegroundfoursolemnmenindresssuitsarewalkingalongthesidewalkwithastretcheronwhichliesadrunkenwomaninawhiteeveningdress.Herhand,whichdanglesovertheside,sparklescoldwithjewels.Gravelythementurninatahouse—thewronghouse.Butnooneknowsthewoman’sname,andnoonecares. AfterGatsby’sdeaththeEastwashauntedformelikethat,distortedbeyondmyeyes’powerofcorrection.SowhenthebluesmokeofbrittleleaveswasintheairandthewindblewthewetlaundrystiffonthelineIdecidedtocomebackhome. TherewasonethingtobedonebeforeIleft,anawkward,unpleasantthingthatperhapshadbetterhavebeenletalone.ButIwantedtoleavethingsinorderandnotjusttrustthatobligingandindifferentseatosweepmyrefuseaway.IsawJordanBakerandtalkedoverandaroundwhathadhappenedtoustogether,andwhathadhappenedafterwardtome,andshelayperfectlystill,listening,inabigchair. Shewasdressedtoplaygolf,andIrememberthinkingshelookedlikeagoodillustration,herchinraisedalittlejauntily,herhairthecolourofanautumnleaf,herfacethesamebrowntintasthefingerlessgloveonherknee.WhenIhadfinishedshetoldmewithoutcommentthatshewasengagedtoanotherman.Idoubtedthat,thoughtherewereseveralshecouldhavemarriedatanodofherhead,butIpretendedtobesurprised.ForjustaminuteIwonderedifIwasn’tmakingamistake,thenIthoughtitalloveragainquicklyandgotuptosaygoodbye. “Neverthelessyoudidthrowmeover,”saidJordansuddenly.“Youthrewmeoveronthetelephone.Idon’tgiveadamnaboutyounow,butitwasanewexperienceforme,andIfeltalittledizzyforawhile.” Weshookhands. “Oh,anddoyouremember”—sheadded—“aconversation