Digital Track
Streaming + Download
Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.
Purchasable with gift card
Buy Digital Track
hotdogs
i will mail you a hotdog from various cookouts so you can experience it with me
just shoot me an address and it's yours turkey and veggie options also available, please specify
Includes unlimited streaming of I Throw Up...Demos
via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
ships out within 98 days
Purchasable with gift card
Buy Now
$1
Get all 9 soxsux releases available on Bandcamp and save 90% .
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of
RIP RIP HOORAY! EP ,
SHORTIES ,
Catchy Dumb Tunes for Catching Dumb People ,
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT STOP SHORT - The Best of the Demos (and some moar to hate) ,
I Throw Up...Demos ,
Yelling "FIREFIGHTER" at a Goat - EP (Angry One) ,
Patrick Eleanor Feinstein Full Name and Address EP (Happy One) ,
Sad Sad Single for Sad Sad Singles (Sad One) ,
and 1 more .
, and , .
Purchasable with gift card
Buy Digital Discography
$0.50
(90% OFF )
about
It's great, its Gastby
lyrics
Chapter 3
There was music from my neighbor’s house through the
summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came
and went like moths among the whisperings and the cham-
pagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched
his guests diving from the tower of his raft or taking the
sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats
slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cat-
aracts of foam. On week-ends his Rolls-Royce became an
omnibus, bearing parties to and from the city, between
nine in the morning and long past midnight, while his sta-
tion wagon scampered like a brisk yellow bug to meet all
trains. And on Mondays eight servants including an extra
gardener toiled all day with mops and scrubbing-brushes
and hammers and garden-shears, repairing the ravages of
the night before.
Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived
from a fruiterer in New York—every Monday these same
oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulp-
less halves. There was a machine in the kitchen which could
extract the juice of two hundred oranges in half an hour, if
a little button was pressed two hundred times by a butler’s
thumb.
At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down
with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored
44 The Great Gatsby
lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous
garden. On buffet tables, garnished with glistening hors-
d’oeuvre, spiced baked hams crowded against salads of
harlequin designs and pastry pigs and turkeys bewitched to
a dark gold. In the main hall a bar with a real brass rail was
set up, and stocked with gins and liquors and with cordials
so long forgotten that most of his female guests were too
young to know one from another.
By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived—no thin five-
piece affair but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and
saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and
high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the beach
now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are
parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and sa-
lons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors and hair
shorn in strange new ways and shawls beyond the dreams
of Castile. The bar is in full swing and floating rounds of
cocktails permeate the garden outside until the air is alive
with chatter and laughter and casual innuendo and intro-
ductions forgotten on the spot and enthusiastic meetings
between women who never knew each other’s names.
The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from
the sun and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail
music and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter
is easier, minute by minute, spilled with prodigality, tipped
out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swift-
ly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same
breath—already there are wanderers, confident girls who
weave here and there among the stouter and more stable,
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 45
become for a sharp, joyous moment the center of a group
and then excited with triumph glide on through the sea-
change of faces and voices and color under the constantly
changing light.
Suddenly one of these gypsies in trembling opal, seizes a
cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and mov-
ing her hands like Frisco dances out alone on the canvas
platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies
his rhythm obligingly for her and there is a burst of chatter
as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s
understudy from the ‘Follies.’ The party has begun.
I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house
I was one of the few guests who had actually been invit-
ed. People were not invited—they went there. They got into
automobiles which bore them out to Long Island and some-
how they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were
introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby and after that
they conducted themselves according to the rules of be-
havior associated with amusement parks. Sometimes they
came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for
the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket
of admission.
I had been actually invited. A chauffeur in a uniform of
robin’s egg blue crossed my lawn early that Saturday morn-
ing with a surprisingly formal note from his employer—the
honor would be entirely Gatsby’s, it said, if I would attend
his ‘little party’ that night. He had seen me several times
and had intended to call on me long before but a peculiar
combination of circumstances had prevented it—signed Jay
46 The Great Gatsby
Gatsby in a majestic hand.
Dressed up in white flannels I went over to his lawn a
little after seven and wandered around rather ill-at-ease
among swirls and eddies of people I didn’t know—though
here and there was a face I had noticed on the commut-
ing train. I was immediately struck by the number of young
Englishmen dotted about; all well dressed, all looking a lit-
tle hungry and all talking in low earnest voices to solid and
prosperous Americans. I was sure that they were selling
something: bonds or insurance or automobiles. They were,
at least, agonizingly aware of the easy money in the vicin-
ity and convinced that it was theirs for a few words in the
right key.
As soon as I arrived I made an attempt to find my host
but the two or three people of whom I asked his where-
abouts stared at me in such an amazed way and denied so
vehemently any knowledge of his movements that I slunk
off in the direction of the cocktail table—the only place in
the garden where a single man could linger without looking
purposeless and alone.
I was on my way to get roaring drunk from sheer em-
barrassment when Jordan Baker came out of the house and
stood at the head of the marble steps, leaning a little back-
ward and looking with contemptuous interest down into
the garden.
Welcome or not, I found it necessary to attach myself to
someone before I should begin to address cordial remarks
to the passers-by.
‘Hello!’ I roared, advancing toward her. My voice seemed
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 47
unnaturally loud across the garden.
‘I thought you might be here,’ she responded absently as I
came up. ‘I remembered you lived next door to——‘
She held my hand impersonally, as a promise that she’d
take care of me in a minute, and gave ear to two girls in twin
yellow dresses who stopped at the foot of the steps.
‘Hello!’ they cried together. ‘Sorry you didn’t win.’
That was for the golf tournament. She had lost in the fi-
nals the week before.
‘You don’t know who we are,’ said one of the girls in yel-
low, ‘but we met you here about a month ago.’
‘You’ve dyed your hair since then,’ remarked Jordan, and
I started but the girls had moved casually on and her re-
mark was addressed to the premature moon, produced like
the supper, no doubt, out of a caterer’s basket. With Jordan’s
slender golden arm resting in mine we descended the steps
and sauntered about the garden. A tray of cocktails floated
at us through the twilight and we sat down at a table with
the two girls in yellow and three men, each one introduced
to us as Mr. Mumble.
‘Do you come to these parties often?’ inquired Jordan of
the girl beside her.
‘The last one was the one I met you at,’ answered the girl,
in an alert, confident voice. She turned to her companion:
‘Wasn’t it for you, Lucille?’
It was for Lucille, too.
‘I like to come,’ Lucille said. ‘I never care what I do, so
I always have a good time. When I was here last I tore my
gown on a chair, and he asked me my name and address—
48 The Great Gatsby
inside of a week I got a package from Croirier’s with a new
evening gown in it.’
‘Did you keep it?’ asked Jordan.
‘Sure I did. I was going to wear it tonight, but it was too
big in the bust and had to be altered. It was gas blue with
lavender beads. Two hundred and sixty-five dollars.’
‘There’s something funny about a fellow that’ll do a thing
like that,’ said the other girl eagerly. ‘He doesn’t want any
trouble with ANYbody.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ I inquired.
‘Gatsby. Somebody told me——‘
The two girls and Jordan leaned together confidentially.
‘Somebody told me they thought he killed a man once.’
A thrill passed over all of us. The three Mr. Mumbles
bent forward and listened eagerly.
‘I don’t think it’s so much THAT,’ argued Lucille skepti-
cally; ‘it’s more that he was a German spy during the war.’
One of the men nodded in confirmation.
‘I heard that from a man who knew all about him, grew
up with him in Germany,’ he assured us positively.
‘Oh, no,’ said the first girl, ‘it couldn’t be that, because he
was in the American army during the war.’ As our credulity
switched back to her she leaned forward with enthusiasm.
‘You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s look-
ing at him. I’ll bet he killed a man.’
She narrowed her eyes and shivered. Lucille shivered.
We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. It was testimo-
ny to the romantic speculation he inspired that there were
whispers about him from those who found little that it was
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 49
necessary to whisper about in this world.
The first supper—there would be another one after mid-
night—was now being served, and Jordan invited me to join
her own party who were spread around a table on the other
side of the garden. There were three married couples and
Jordan’s escort, a persistent undergraduate given to violent
innuendo and obviously under the impression that sooner
or later Jordan was going to yield him up her person to a
greater or lesser degree. Instead of rambling this party had
preserved a dignified homogeneity, and assumed to itself the
function of representing the staid nobility of the country-
side—East Egg condescending to West Egg, and carefully
on guard against its spectroscopic gayety.
‘Let’s get out,’ whispered Jordan, after a somehow waste-
ful and inappropriate half hour. ‘This is much too polite for
me.’
We got up, and she explained that we were going to find
the host—I had never met him, she said, and it was making
me uneasy. The undergraduate nodded in a cynical, melan-
choly way.
The bar, where we glanced first, was crowded but Gatsby
was not there. She couldn’t find him from the top of the
steps, and he wasn’t on the veranda. On a chance we tried
an important-looking door, and walked into a high Goth-
ic library, panelled with carved English oak, and probably
transported complete from some ruin overseas.
A stout, middle-aged man with enormous owl-eyed spec-
tacles was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of a great
table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of
50 The Great Gatsby
books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and ex-
amined Jordan from head to foot.
‘What do you think?’ he demanded impetuously.
‘About what?’
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
‘About that. As a matter of fact you needn’t bother to as-
certain. I ascertained. They’re real.’
‘The books?’
He nodded.
‘Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought
they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re
absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.’
Taking our skepticism for granted, he rushed to the
bookcases and returned with Volume One of the ‘Stoddard
Lectures.’
‘See!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘It’s a bona fide piece of
printed matter. It fooled me. This fella’s a regular Belasco.
It’s a triumph. What thoroughness! What realism! Knew
when to stop too—didn’t cut the pages. But what do you
want? What do you expect?’
He snatched the book from me and replaced it hastily on
its shelf muttering that if one brick was removed the whole
library was liable to collapse.
‘Who brought you?’ he demanded. ‘Or did you just come?
I was brought. Most people were brought.’
Jordan looked at him alertly, cheerfully without answer-
ing.
‘I was brought by a woman named Roosevelt,’ he con-
tinued. ‘Mrs. Claud Roosevelt. Do you know her? I met her
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 51
somewhere last night. I’ve been drunk for about a week now,
and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.’
‘Has it?’
‘A little bit, I think. I can’t tell yet. I’ve only been here an
hour. Did I tell you about the books? They’re real. They’re—
—‘
‘You told us.’
We shook hands with him gravely and went back out-
doors.
There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden,
old men pushing young girls backward in eternal grace-
less circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously,
fashionably and keeping in the corners—and a great num-
ber of single girls dancing individualistically or relieving
the orchestra for a moment of the burden of the banjo or the
traps. By midnight the hilarity had increased. A celebrated
tenor had sung in Italian and a notorious contralto had sung
in jazz and between the numbers people were doing ‘stunts’
all over the garden, while happy vacuous bursts of laughter
rose toward the summer sky. A pair of stage ‘twins’—who
turned out to be the girls in yellow—did a baby act in cos-
tume and champagne was served in glasses bigger than
finger bowls. The moon had risen higher, and floating in the
Sound was a triangle of silver scales, trembling a little to the
stiff, tinny drip of the banjoes on the lawn.
I was still with Jordan Baker. We were sitting at a table
with a man of about my age and a rowdy little girl who gave
way upon the slightest provocation to uncontrollable laugh-
ter. I was enjoying myself now. I had taken two finger bowls
52 The Great Gatsby
of champagne and the scene had changed before my eyes
into something significant, elemental and profound.
At a lull in the entertainment the man looked at me and
smiled.
‘Your face is familiar,’ he said, politely. ‘Weren’t you in
the Third Division during the war?’
‘Why, yes. I was in the Ninth Machine-Gun Battalion.’
‘I was in the Seventh Infantry until June nineteen-eigh-
teen. I knew I’d seen you somewhere before.’
We talked for a moment about some wet, grey little vil-
lages in France. Evidently he lived in this vicinity for he told
me that he had just bought a hydroplane and was going to
try it out in the morning.
‘Want to go with me, old sport? Just near the shore along
the Sound.’
‘What time?’
‘Any time that suits you best.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask his name when Jor-
dan looked around and smiled.
‘Having a gay time now?’ she inquired.
‘Much better.’ I turned again to my new acquaintance.
‘This is an unusual party for me. I haven’t even seen the
host. I live over there——’ I waved my hand at the invisible
hedge in the distance, ‘and this man Gatsby sent over his
chauffeur with an invitation.’
For a moment he looked at me as if he failed to under-
stand.
‘I’m Gatsby,’ he said suddenly.
‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’
Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 53
‘I thought you knew, old sport. I’m afraid I’m not a very
good host.’
He smiled understandingly—much more than under-
standingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of
eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or
five times in life. It faced—or seemed to face—the whole ex-
ternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on YOU
with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood
you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed
in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured
you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your
best, you hoped to convey. Precisely at that point it van-
ished—and I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck, a
year or two over thirty, whose elaborate formality of speech
just missed being absurd. Some time before he introduced
himself I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his
words with care.
Almost at the
credits
license
all rights reserved