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What is wrong with you, folks?

Discussion in 'General Discussion' started by Anonymous, Jun 3, 2009.

  1. Fuckeye Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Oops.
  2. Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    yup should have left the first two sentences only.. got ambitious...

    OH Look Navy Seals!

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  3. anmoyunos Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Edit: Ahh hell, forgot to hit anonymous

    .uʍouʞ ɹǝʌǝ ǝʌɐɥ ı ʇɐɥʇ ǝ1doǝd ʇsǝuoɥ ʍǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ɯɐ ı :ǝuıɯ sı sıɥʇ puɐ 'sǝnʇɹıʌ 1ɐuıpɹɐɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ʇsɐǝ1 ʇɐ ɟo ɟ1ǝsɯıɥ sʇɔǝdsns ǝuo ʎɹǝʌǝ

    .ǝǝɹɟ sɐʍ ı ǝɹoɟǝq ɟɟo uǝʞoɹq ʎ11nɟʇɔɐʇ ǝq oʇ pɐɥ ʇɐɥʇ buıpuɐʇsɹǝpun ǝnbɐʌ ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ssǝ1ǝɥʇɹǝʌǝu .dı1 ɹǝddn ɹǝɥ uo pǝɹɐǝddɐ uoıʇɐɹıdsɹǝd ɟo ǝɥɔɐʇsnɯ ʇuıɐɟ ɐ 'sıuuǝʇ pǝʎɐ1d 1ɹıb uıɐʇɹǝɔ ʇɐɥʇ uǝɥʍ 'ʍoɥ sɐʍ ɟo ʞuıɥʇ p1noɔ ı 11ɐ puɐ ”'ʞɔıu 'ǝʌo1“ :ɯǝɥʇ buıubıs puɐ ʞǝǝʍ ɐ ǝɔuo sɹǝʇʇǝ1 buıʇıɹʍ uǝǝq p’ı .ǝɯoɥ ʞɔɐq ǝ1buɐʇ ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʇno ʎ1ǝʇıuıɟǝp ɟ1ǝsʎɯ ʇǝb oʇ pɐɥ ı ʇsɹıɟ ʇɐɥʇ ʍǝuʞ ı puɐ 'sǝɹısǝp ʎɯ uo sǝʞɐɹq sɐ ʇɔɐ ʇɐɥʇ sǝ1nɹ ɹoıɹǝʇuı ɟo 11nɟ puɐ buıʞuıɥʇ-ʍo1s ɯɐ ı ʇnq .ɹǝɥ pǝʌo1 ı ʇɥbnoɥʇ ı ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ puɐ 'suoıʇɐ1ǝɹ ɹno pǝʇɟıɥs ʎ1ǝʇɐɹǝqı1ǝp pɐɥ ǝɥs ʇnq 'pɐǝɥɐ ʇɥbıɐɹʇs pǝɹɐʇs sǝʎǝ pǝuıɐɹʇs-uns 'ʎɐɹb ɹǝɥ

    ”.noʎ ǝʞı1 ı ʎɥʍ s’ʇɐɥʇ .ǝ1doǝd ssǝ1ǝɹɐɔ ǝʇɐɥ ı“ .pǝɹǝʍsuɐ ǝɥs ”'11ıʍ ɹǝʌǝu ı ǝdoɥ ı“

    ”.ɟ1ǝsɹnoʎ sɐ ssǝ1ǝɹɐɔ sɐ ʇsnظ ʎpoqǝɯos ʇǝɯ noʎ ǝsoddns“

    ”.ʇuǝpıɔɔɐ uɐ ǝʞɐɯ oʇ oʍʇ sǝʞɐʇ ʇı“ .pǝʇsısuı ǝɥs ”'ʎɐʍ ʎɯ ɟo ʇno dǝǝʞ 11’ʎǝɥʇ“

    ”¿ʇı ɥʇıʍ op oʇ ʇob ʇɐɥʇ s’ʇɐɥʍ“

    .ʎ1ʇɥbı1 pıɐs ǝɥs ”'ǝɹɐ ǝ1doǝd ɹǝɥʇo '11ǝʍ“

    ”.ʇou ǝɹ’noʎ 'ou“

    ”.1nɟǝɹɐɔ ɯɐ ı“

    ”.11ɐ ʇɐ ǝʌıɹp oʇ ʇ’uʇɥbno noʎ ɹo '1nɟǝɹɐɔ ǝɹoɯ ǝq oʇ ʇɥbno noʎ ɹǝɥʇıǝ“ .pǝʇsǝʇoɹd ı ”'ɹǝʌıɹp uǝʇʇoɹ ɐ ǝɹ’noʎ“

    .ʇɐoɔ s’uɐɯ ǝuo uo uoʇʇnq ɐ pǝʞɔı1ɟ ɹǝpuǝɟ ɹno ʇɐɥʇ uǝɯʞɹoʍ ǝɯos oʇ ǝso1ɔ os pǝssɐd ǝɥs ǝsnɐɔǝq pǝʇɹɐʇs ʇı .ɹɐɔ ɐ buıʌıɹp ʇnoqɐ uoıʇɐsɹǝʌuoɔ snoıɹnɔ ɐ pɐɥ ǝʍ ʇɐɥʇ ʎʇɹɐd ǝsnoɥ ǝɯɐs ʇɐɥʇ uo sɐʍ ʇı .ʇobɹoɟ ı uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʎɹɹos ʎ11ɐnsɐɔ sɐʍ ı—ʎ1dǝǝp ǝɯɐ1q ɹǝʌǝu noʎ buıɥʇ ɐ sı uɐɯoʍ ɐ uı ʎʇsǝuoɥsıp .ǝɯ oʇ ǝɔuǝɹǝɟɟıp ou ǝpɐɯ ʇı

    .ʎpoq ʎʇunɐظ 'pɹɐɥ ɹǝɥ ɟo spuɐɯǝp ǝɥʇ ʎɟsıʇɐs ʇǝʎ puɐ p1ɹoʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝuɹnʇ ǝ1ıɯs ʇuǝ1osuı '1ooɔ ʇɐɥʇ dǝǝʞ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı bunoʎ ʎɹǝʌ sɐʍ ǝɥs uǝɥʍ sǝbnɟɹǝʇqns uı buı1ɐǝp unbǝq pɐɥ ǝɥs ǝsoddns ı 'ssǝubuı11ıʍun sıɥʇ uǝʌıb 'puɐ ǝbɐʇuɐʌpɐsıp ɐ ʇɐ buıǝq ǝɹnpuǝ oʇ ǝ1qɐ ʇ’usɐʍ ǝɥs .ʇsǝuoɥsıp ʎ1qɐɹnɔuı sɐʍ ǝɥs .ǝ1qıssodɯı ʇɥbnoɥʇ ǝq p1noʍ ǝpoɔ ɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝɔuǝbɹǝʌıp ʎuɐ ǝɹǝɥʍ ǝuɐ1d ɐ uo ɹǝɟɐs ʇ1ǝɟ ǝɥs ǝsnɐɔǝq sɐʍ sıɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʍɐs ı ʍou puɐ 'uǝɯ pʍǝɹɥs 'ɹǝʌǝ1ɔ pǝpıoʌɐ ʎ1ǝʌıʇɔuıʇsuı ɹǝʞɐq uɐpɹoظ

    .puıɯ ʎɯ uı ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ pǝuıɐɯǝɹ pɐɥ ǝɯɐu ǝɥʇ puɐ ʇuǝpıɔuı ǝɥʇ .uǝʞɐʇsıɯ uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ ʇɥbıɯ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ pǝʇʇıɯpɐ ssǝuʇıʍ ɹǝɥʇo ʎ1uo ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇuǝɯǝʇɐʇs sıɥ pǝʇɔɐɹʇǝɹ ʎppɐɔ ɐ .ʎɐʍɐ pǝıp uǝɥʇ—1ɐpuɐɔs ɐ ɟo suoıʇɹodoɹd ǝɥʇ pǝɥɔɐoɹddɐ buıɥʇ ǝɥʇ .punoɹ 1ɐuıɟ-ıɯǝs ǝɥʇ uı ǝı1 pɐq ɐ ɯoɹɟ 11ɐq ɹǝɥ pǝʌoɯ pɐɥ ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ uoıʇsǝbbns ɐ—sɹǝdɐdsʍǝu ǝɥʇ pǝɥɔɐǝɹ ʎ1ɹɐǝu ʇɐɥʇ ʍoɹ ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇuǝɯɐuɹnoʇ ɟ1ob bıq ʇsɹıɟ ɹǝɥ ʇɐ .s’ʎsıɐp ʇɐ ʇɥbıu ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯ pǝpn1ǝ pɐɥ ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝɥ ʇnoqɐ ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ pǝɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ı ʎ1uǝppns puɐ—ʇı ʇnoqɐ pǝı1 uǝɥʇ puɐ 'uʍop doʇ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ uıɐɹ ǝɥʇ uı ʇno ɹɐɔ pǝʍoɹɹoq ɐ ʇɟǝ1 ǝɥs 'ʞɔıʍɹɐʍ uı dn ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ ʎʇɹɐd-ǝsnoɥ ɐ uo ǝɹǝʍ ǝʍ uǝɥʍ .sɐʍ ʇı ʇɐɥʍ punoɟ ı ʎɐp ǝuo puɐ—buıuuıbǝq ǝɥʇ uı ʇ’uop ʎǝɥʇ ɥbnoɥʇ uǝʌǝ 'ʎ11ɐnʇuǝʌǝ buıɥʇǝɯos 1ɐǝɔuoɔ suoıʇɐʇɔǝɟɟɐ ʇsoɯ—buıɥʇǝɯos pǝ1ɐǝɔuoɔ p1ɹoʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝuɹnʇ ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ ǝɔɐɟ ʎʇɥbnɐɥ pǝɹoq ǝɥʇ .ʎʇısoıɹnɔ ɹǝpuǝʇ ɟo ʇɹos ɐ ʇ1ǝɟ ı ʇnq 'ǝʌo1 uı ʎ11ɐnʇɔɐ ʇ’usɐʍ ı .ǝɹoɯ buıɥʇǝɯos sɐʍ ʇı uǝɥʇ .ǝɯɐu ɹǝɥ ʍǝuʞ ǝuo ʎɹǝʌǝ puɐ 'uoıdɯɐɥɔ ɟ1ob ɐ sɐʍ ǝɥs ǝsnɐɔǝq 'ɹǝɥ ɥʇıʍ sǝɔɐ1d ob oʇ pǝɹǝʇʇɐ1ɟ sɐʍ ı ʇsɹıɟ ʇɐ .uıɐbɐ ɹǝɥ punoɟ ı ɹǝɯɯnspıɯ uı uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ɹǝʞɐq uɐpɹoظ ɟo ʇɥbıs ʇso1 ı ǝ1ıɥʍ ɐ ɹoɟ

    .11ǝʍ ɯǝɥʇ pǝɥsıʍ ı 'ʇuǝɯǝʇıɔxǝ ǝʇɐɯıʇuı ɹıǝɥʇ buıɹɐɥs puɐ ʎʇǝʎɐb pɹɐʍoʇ buıʎɹɹnɥ sɐʍ 'ooʇ 'ı ʇɐɥʇ buıuıbɐɯı .ǝpısuı sǝɹnʇsǝb 07 ǝ1qıbı11ǝʇuıun pǝuı1ʇno sǝʇʇǝɹɐbıɔ pǝʇɥbı1 puɐ 'sǝʞoظ pɹɐǝɥun ɯoɹɟ ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ puɐ 'buɐs sǝɔıoʌ puɐ 'pǝʇıɐʍ ʎǝɥʇ sɐ sıxɐʇ ǝɥʇ uı ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ pǝuɐǝ1 sɯɹoɟ .ʇɹɐǝɥ ʎɯ uı buıʞuıs ɐ ʇ1ǝɟ ı 'ʇɔıɹʇsıp ǝɹʇɐǝɥʇ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ punoq 'sqɐɔ-ıxɐʇ buıqqoɹɥʇ ɥʇıʍ dǝǝp ǝʌıɟ ǝɹǝʍ sǝıʇɹoɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝuɐ1 ʞɹɐp ǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ 'ʞɔo1ɔ’o ʇɥbıǝ ʇɐ uıɐbɐ

    .ǝɟı1 puɐ ʇɥbıu ɟo sʇuǝɯoɯ ʇuɐubıod ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ buıʇsɐʍ 'ʞsnp ǝɥʇ uı sʞɹǝ1ɔ bunoʎ—ɹǝuuıp ʇuɐɹnɐʇsǝɹ ʎɹɐʇı1os ɐ ɹoɟ ǝɯıʇ sɐʍ ʇı 1ıʇun buıʇıɐʍ sʍopuıʍ ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı pǝɹǝʇıo1 oɥʍ sʞɹǝ1ɔ bunoʎ ɹood—sɹǝɥʇo uı ʇı ʇ1ǝɟ puɐ 'sǝɯıʇǝɯos ssǝuı1ǝuo1 buıʇunɐɥ ɐ ʇ1ǝɟ ı ʇɥbı1ıʍʇ uɐʇı1odoɹʇǝɯ pǝʇuɐɥɔuǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ .ssǝuʞɹɐp ɯɹɐʍ oʇuı ɹoop ɐ ɥbnoɹɥʇ pǝpɐɟ ʎǝɥʇ ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɯ ʇɐ ʞɔɐq pǝ1ıɯs puɐ pǝuɹnʇ ʎǝɥʇ puɐ 'sʇǝǝɹʇs uǝppıɥ ɟo sɹǝuɹoɔ ǝɥʇ uo sʇuǝɯʇɹɐdɐ ɹıǝɥʇ oʇ ɯǝɥʇ pǝʍo11oɟ ı 'puıɯ ʎɯ uı 'sǝɯıʇǝɯos .ǝʌoɹddɐsıp ɹo ʍouʞ ɹǝʌǝ p1noʍ ǝuo ou puɐ 'sǝʌı1 ɹıǝɥʇ oʇuı ɹǝʇuǝ oʇ buıob sɐʍ ı sǝʇnuıɯ ʍǝɟ ɐ uı ʇɐɥʇ ǝuıbɐɯı puɐ pʍoɹɔ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ uǝɯoʍ ɔıʇuɐɯoɹ ʇno ʞɔıd puɐ ǝnuǝʌɐ ɥʇɟıɟ dn ʞ1ɐʍ oʇ pǝʞı1 ı .ǝʎǝ ssǝ1ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝʌıb sǝuıɥɔɐɯ puɐ uǝɯoʍ puɐ uǝɯ ɟo ɹǝʞɔı1ɟ ʇuɐʇsuoɔ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ uoıʇɔɐɟsıʇɐs ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇɥbıu ʇɐ ʇı ɟo 1ǝǝɟ snoɹnʇuǝʌpɐ 'ʎɔɐɹ ǝɥʇ 'ʞɹoʎ ʍǝu ǝʞı1 oʇ uɐbǝq ı

    .uoıʇɐʇs ɐıuɐʌ1ʎsuuǝd ǝɥʇ oʇ ʇǝǝɹʇs pɹ33 ɹǝʌo puɐ '1ǝʇoɥ 11ıɥ ʎɐɹɹnɯ p1o ǝɥʇ ʇsɐd ǝnuǝʌɐ uosıpɐɯ uʍop pǝ11oɹʇs ı 'ʍo11ǝɯ sɐʍ ʇɥbıu ǝɥʇ ɟı 'ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝʇɟɐ .ʞɹoʍ oʇ ǝɔɐ1d poob ɐ sɐʍ ʇı os 'ʎɹɐɹqı1 ǝɥʇ oʇuı ǝɯɐɔ ɹǝʌǝu ʎǝɥʇ ʇnq 'punoɹɐ sɹǝʇoıɹ ʍǝɟ ɐ ʎ11ɐɹǝuǝb ǝɹǝʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ .ɹnoɥ snoıʇuǝıɔsuoɔ ɐ ɹoɟ sǝıʇıɹnɔǝs puɐ sʇuǝɯʇsǝʌuı pǝıpnʇs puɐ ʎɹɐɹqı1 ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹıɐʇs-dn ʇuǝʍ ı uǝɥʇ puɐ—ʎɐp ʎɯ ɟo ʇuǝʌǝ ʇsǝıɯoo1b ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı uosɐǝɹ ǝɯos ɹoɟ—qn1ɔ ǝ1ɐʎ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʎ11ɐnsn ɹǝuuıp ʞooʇ ı

    .ʎɐʍɐ ʎ1ʇǝınb ʍo1q ʇı ʇǝ1 ı ʎ1nظ uı uoıʇɐɔɐʌ ɹǝɥ uo ʇuǝʍ ǝɥs uǝɥʍ os 'uoıʇɔǝɹıp ʎɯ uı sʞoo1 uɐǝɯ buıʍoɹɥʇ uɐbǝq ɹǝɥʇoɹq ɹǝɥ ʇnq 'ʇuǝɯʇɹɐdǝp buıʇunoɔɔɐ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʞɹoʍ puɐ ʎʇıɔ ʎǝsɹǝظ uı pǝʌı1 oɥʍ 1ɹıb ɐ ɥʇıʍ ɹıɐɟɟɐ ʇɹoɥs ɐ pɐɥ uǝʌǝ ı .ǝǝɟɟoɔ puɐ sǝoʇɐʇod pǝɥsɐɯ puɐ sǝbɐsnɐs bıd ǝ1ʇʇı1 uo sʇuɐɹnɐʇsǝɹ pǝpʍoɹɔ 'ʞɹɐp uı ɯǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ pǝɥɔun1 puɐ 'sǝɯɐu ʇsɹıɟ ɹıǝɥʇ ʎq uǝɯsǝ1ɐs-puoq bunoʎ puɐ sʞɹǝ1ɔ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ʍǝuʞ ı .ʇsnɹʇ ʎʇıqoɹd ǝɥʇ oʇ ʞɹoʎ ʍǝu ɹǝʍo1 ɟo sɯsɐɥɔ ǝʇıɥʍ ǝɥʇ uʍop pǝıɹɹnɥ ı sɐ pɹɐʍʇsǝʍ ʍopɐɥs ʎɯ ʍǝɹɥʇ uns ǝɥʇ buıuɹoɯ ʎ1ɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ uı .pǝʞɹoʍ ı ǝɯıʇ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɯ

    .sɹıɐɟɟɐ 1ɐuosɹǝd ʎɯ uɐɥʇ ssǝ1 ʎ1ǝʇıuıɟuı ǝɯ pǝqɹosqɐ ʎǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʇɐ1 ɥɔnɯ 1ıʇun 'puɐ 'ɹǝɯɯns pǝpʍoɹɔ ɐ uı sʇuǝʌǝ 1ɐnsɐɔ ʎ1ǝɹǝɯ ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ 'ʎɹɐɹʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ uo .ǝɯ pǝqɹosqɐ ʇɐɥʇ 11ɐ ǝɹǝʍ ʇɹɐdɐ sʞǝǝʍ 1ɐɹǝʌǝs sʇɥbıu ǝǝɹɥʇ ɟo sʇuǝʌǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ uoıssǝɹdɯı ǝɥʇ uǝʌıb ǝʌɐɥ ı ǝǝs ı 'ɹɐɟ os uǝʇʇıɹʍ ǝʌɐɥ ı ʇɐɥʍ ɹǝʌo buıpɐǝɹ

    .11ǝʍǝɹɐɟ ɟo ǝɹnʇsǝb 1ɐɯɹoɟ ɐ uı dn puɐɥ sıɥ 'ɥɔɹod ǝɥʇ uo pooʇs oɥʍ 'ʇsoɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɹnbıɟ ǝɥʇ uoıʇɐ1osı ǝʇǝ1dɯoɔ ɥʇıʍ buıʍopuǝ 'sɹoop ʇɐǝɹb ǝɥʇ puɐ sʍopuıʍ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʍou ʍo1ɟ oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ssǝuıʇdɯǝ uǝppns ɐ .uǝpɹɐb buıʍo1b 11ıʇs sıɥ ɟo punos ǝɥʇ puɐ ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 ǝɥʇ buıʌıʌɹns puɐ 'ǝɹoɟǝq sɐ ǝuıɟ ʇɥbıu ǝɥʇ buıʞɐɯ 'ǝsnoɥ s’ʎqsʇɐb ɹǝʌo buıuıɥs sɐʍ uooɯ ɐ ɟo ɹǝɟɐʍ ɐ .ǝɔuo ʞɔɐq pǝɔuɐ1b ı .ǝɯoɥ pɹɐʍoʇ uʍɐ1 ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ ʇnɔ puɐ ʎɐʍɐ pǝuɹnʇ ı puɐ opuǝɔsǝɹɔ ɐ pǝɥɔɐǝɹ pɐɥ suɹoɥ buı1nɐʍɹǝʇɐɔ ǝɥʇ

    .pıɐs ǝɥ ”'buıʎɹʇ uı ɯɹɐɥ ou“

    .pǝʇɐʇısǝɥ ǝɥ

    ”¡ɟɟo s’1ǝǝɥʍ ǝɥʇ ʇnq“

    ”.ǝsɹǝʌǝɹ uı ɹǝɥ ʇnd“ .ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹǝʇɟɐ pǝʇsǝbbns ǝɥ ”'ʇno ʞɔɐq“

    .puoq 1ɐɔısʎɥd ʎuɐ ʎq pǝuıoظ ɹǝbuo1 ou ǝɹǝʍ ɹɐɔ puɐ 1ǝǝɥʍ ʇɐɥʇ ɯıɥ oʇ pǝuıɐ1dxǝ 'sɐʍ ǝɥ uɐɥʇ ɟɟo ɹǝʇʇǝq ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯos 'uǝɯ uǝzop ɐ ʇsɐǝ1 ʇɐ

    ”¿uoıʇɐʇs ǝuı1’sɐb ɐ s’ǝɹǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ǝɯ 11ǝʇ ɟɟ’ɹǝpuoʍ“

    :ǝɔıoʌ pǝuıɯɹǝʇǝp ɐ uı pǝʞɹɐɯǝɹ ǝɥ 'sɹǝp1noɥs sıɥ buıuǝʇɥbıɐɹʇs puɐ ɥʇɐǝɹq buo1 ɐ buıʞɐʇ 'uǝɥʇ .ǝsnɐd ɐ

    ”.pǝddoʇs p’ǝʍ ǝɔıʇou ’uıp ı ʇsɹıɟ ʇɐ“

    .pǝppou ǝɥ

    .pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ǝuo ǝɯos ”'ɟɟo ǝɯɐɔ ʇı“

    .ʎʞs ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pǝddoɹp pɐɥ ʇı ʇɐɥʇ pǝʇɔǝdsns ǝɥ ɥbnoɥʇ sɐ pɹɐʍdn pǝʞoo1 uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ ʇı ʇɐ pǝɹɐʇs ǝɥ—1ǝǝɥʍ pǝʇɐʇndɯɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ pǝʇuıod sɹǝbuıɟ uǝzop ɐ ɟ1ɐɥ

    ”¡ʞoo1“

    ”¿sɐb ɐʇno unɹ ǝʍ pıp“ .ʎ1ɯ1ɐɔ pǝɹınbuı ǝɥ ”¿ɹǝʇʇɐɯ s’ɐɥʍ“

    .ɹǝʇsnp ǝɥʇ uı uɐɯ ǝɥʇ pǝʌıǝɔɹǝd ǝɥ ǝɹoɟǝq ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ buıʎɐʍs pooʇs uoıʇıɹɐddɐ ǝɥʇ 'suɹoɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo buıuɐoɹb ʇuɐssǝɔuı ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝsnɟuoɔ puɐ sʇɥbı1pɐǝɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɹɐ1b ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝpuı1q

    .ǝoɥs buıɔuɐp uıɐʇɹǝɔun ǝbɹɐ1 ɐ ɥʇıʍ punoɹb ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʎ1ǝʌıʇɐʇuǝʇ buıʍɐd 'ʞɔǝɹʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇno pǝddǝʇs 1ɐnpıʌıpuı buı1buɐp 'ǝ1ɐd ɐ 'ʇɹɐd ʎq ʇɹɐd 'ʎ11ɐnpɐɹb ʎɹǝʌ 'uǝɥʇ .ǝsnɐd ʎ1ʇsoɥb ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ǝpıʍ pǝuǝdo pɐɥ ɹoop ǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ puɐ 'ʎ1ıɹɐʇun1oʌuı ʞɔɐq pǝddǝʇs—pʍoɹɔ ɐ ʍou sɐʍ ʇı—pʍoɹɔ ǝɥʇ .uǝdo ʎ1ʍo1s bunʍs ǝdnoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɹoop ǝɥʇ sɐ ”¡ɥ-ɥ-ɥɐ“ pǝuıɐʇsns ɐ uı ǝɔıoʌ punoɟ uoıʇɐɹɐ1ɔǝp sıɥʇ pǝʍo11oɟ ʇɐɥʇ ʞɔoɥs ǝɥʇ

    ”.ɹɐɔ ǝɥʇ uı uɐɯ ɹǝɥʇouɐ s’ǝɹǝɥʇ .buıʌıɹp ʇ’usɐʍ ı“ .1ɐuıɯıɹɔ ǝɥʇ pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ”'puɐʇsɹǝpun ʇ’uop noʎ“

    ”¡buıʎɹʇ uǝʌǝ ʇou puɐ ɹǝʌıɹp pɐq ɐ ¡1ǝǝɥʍ ɐ ʇsnظ sɐʍ ʇı ʎʞɔn1 ǝɹ’noʎ“

    ”¿ǝpıɔıns ʇıɯɯoɔ oʇ ʇuɐʍ noʎ op“

    .sɹǝpuɐʇsʎq ǝɥʇ uodn 11ǝɟ ɥsnɥ pǝʍɐ uɐ

    ”.buıʎɹʇ uǝʌǝ ʇ’usɐʍ ı“ 'ʎ1ʇuɐubıpuı pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ǝɥ ”'buıʎɹʇ uǝʌǝ ʇ’usɐʍ ı ʇnq“

    ”.ʇɥbıu ʇɐ buıʌıɹp ʎɹʇ oʇ ʇ’uʇɥbno noʎ ɹǝʌıɹp ɹood ɐ ǝɹ’noʎ ɟı '11ǝʍ“

    ”.ʍouʞ ı 11ɐ s’ʇɐɥʇ puɐ 'pǝuǝddɐɥ ʇı .buıɥʇou oʇ ʇxǝu—buıʌıɹp ʇnoqɐ ǝ1ʇʇı1 ʎɹǝʌ ʍouʞ ı“ .ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ǝ1oɥʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo spuɐɥ sıɥ buıɥsɐʍ 'sǝʎǝ 1ʍo pıɐs ”'ǝɯ ʞsɐ ʇ’uop“ ”¿11ɐʍ ǝɥʇ oʇuı unɹ noʎ pıp ¿uǝddɐɥ ʇı pıp ʍoɥ ʇnq“

    .ʎ1ǝʌısıɔǝp pıɐs ǝɥ ”'sɔıuɐɥɔǝɯ ʇnoqɐ ɹǝʌǝʇɐɥʍ buıɥʇou ʍouʞ ı“

    .sɹǝp1noɥs sıɥ pǝbbnɹɥs ǝɥ

    ”¿uǝddɐɥ ʇı p’ʍoɥ“

    .ʎɹɐɹqı1 s’ʎqsʇɐb ɟo uoɹʇɐd ǝʇɐ1 ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı—uɐɯ ǝɥʇ uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ɹǝpuoʍ ɟo ʎʇı1ɐnb 1ɐnsnun ǝɥʇ ʇsɹıɟ pǝzıuboɔǝɹ ı puɐ 'ɯıɥ oʇ buıɥsıuoʇsɐ ʎ1ǝʇıuıɟuı sɐʍ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ

    ”.ɥɔʇıp ǝɥʇ uı ʇuǝʍ ʇı“ .pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ǝɥ ”¡ǝǝs“

    .ʎɐʍ pǝ1zznd 'ʇuɐsɐǝ1d ɐ uı sɹǝʌɹǝsqo ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝɹıʇ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ puɐ ǝɹıʇ ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹɐɔ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ buıʞoo1 'pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝ1ppıɯ ǝɥʇ uı pooʇs ʍou puɐ ʞɔǝɹʍ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pǝʇunoɯsıp pɐɥ ɹǝʇsnp buo1 ɐ uı uɐɯ ɐ

    .ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ɟo uoısnɟuoɔ ʇuǝ1oıʌ ʎpɐǝɹ1ɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝppɐ puɐ 'ǝɯıʇ ǝɯos ɹoɟ ǝ1qıpnɐ uǝǝq pɐɥ ɹɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ uı ǝsoɥʇ ɯoɹɟ uıp ʇuɐpɹoɔsıp 'ɥsɹɐɥ ɐ 'pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ buıʞɔo1q sɹɐɔ ɹıǝɥʇ ʇɟǝ1 pɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ sɐ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ .sɹnǝɟɟnɐɥɔ snoıɹnɔ uǝzop ɐ ɟ1ɐɥ ɯoɹɟ uoıʇuǝʇʇɐ ǝ1qɐɹǝpısuoɔ buıʇʇǝb ʍou sɐʍ ɥɔıɥʍ '1ǝǝɥʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuǝɯɥɔɐʇǝp ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pǝʇunoɔɔɐ 11ɐʍ ɐ ɟo ʇnظ dɹɐɥs ǝɥʇ .ǝɹoɟǝq sǝʇnuıɯ oʍʇ ʇou ǝʌıɹp s’ʎqsʇɐb ʇɟǝ1 pɐɥ ɥɔıɥʍ ǝdnoɔ ʍǝu ɐ pǝʇsǝɹ '1ǝǝɥʍ ǝuo ɟo uɹoɥs ʎ1ʇuǝ1oıʌ ʇnq 'dn ǝpıs ʇɥbıɹ 'pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ ǝpısǝq ɥɔʇıp ǝɥʇ uı .ǝuǝɔs snonʇ1nɯnʇ puɐ ǝɹɹɐzıq ɐ pǝʇɐuıɯn11ı sʇɥbı1pɐǝɥ uǝzop ɐ ɹoop ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʇǝǝɟ ʎʇɟıɟ .ɹǝʌo ǝʇınb ʇou sɐʍ buıuǝʌǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʍɐs ı sdǝʇs ǝɥʇ uʍop pǝʞ1ɐʍ ı sɐ ʇnq

    ”.ʇɥbıu poob . . . .ʇɹods p1o 'ʇɥbıu poob“ .ǝɯıʇ ǝɥʇ 11ɐ ʇı pǝɹısǝp pɐɥ ǝɥ ɟı sɐ 'ob oʇ ʇsɐ1 ǝɥʇ buoɯɐ uǝǝq buıʌɐɥ uı ǝɔuɐɔıɟıubıs ʇuɐsɐǝ1d ɐ ǝq oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ǝɹǝɥʇ ʎ1uǝppns puɐ—pǝ1ıɯs ǝɥ ”.ʇɥbıu poob“

    ”.ʇɥbıu poob“

    ”.ʇɥbıu poob . . . .ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇɥbıɹ ǝq 11’ı ɯǝɥʇ 11ǝʇ .ǝʇnuıɯ ɐ uı 'ʇɥbıɹ 11ɐ“

    ”.ɹıs 'ǝuoɥd‘ ǝɥʇ uo noʎ sʇuɐʍ ɐıɥd1ǝpɐ1ıɥd“ :ɹǝp1noɥs sıɥ puıɥǝq 'ɹǝ1ʇnq ǝɥʇ uǝɥʇ

    ”.ʞɔo1ɔ’o ǝuıu ʇɐ 'buıuɹoɯ ʍoɹɹoɯ-oʇ ǝuɐ1doɹpʎɥ ǝɥʇ uı dn buıob ǝɹ’ǝʍ ʇǝbɹoɟ ʇ’uop puɐ“ .ɹǝp1noɥs ʎɯ pǝɥsnɹq ʎ1buıɹnssɐǝɹ ɥɔıɥʍ puɐɥ ǝɥʇ uɐɥʇ ʎʇıɹɐı1ıɯɐɟ ǝɹoɯ ou p1ǝɥ uoıssǝɹdxǝ ɹɐı1ıɯɐɟ ǝɥʇ ”.ʇɹods p1o 'ʇɥbnoɥʇ ɹǝɥʇouɐ ʇı ǝʌıb ʇ’uop“ .ʎ1ɹǝbɐǝ ǝɯ pǝuıoظuǝ ǝɥ ”'ʇı uoıʇuǝɯ ʇ’uop“

    .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ uı ɯıɥ uʍouʞ buıʌɐɥ ʇou ɹoɟ ǝzıbo1odɐ oʇ puɐ buıuǝʌǝ ǝɥʇ uı ʎ1ɹɐǝ ɯıɥ ɹoɟ pǝʇunɥ p’ı ʇɐɥʇ uıɐ1dxǝ oʇ pǝʇuɐʍ ı .ɯıɥ punoɹɐ pǝɹǝʇsn1ɔ ǝɹǝʍ oɥʍ 'sʇsǝnb s’ʎqsʇɐb ɟo ʇsɐ1 ǝɥʇ pǝuıoظ ı 'ǝʇɐ1 os pǝʎɐʇs pɐɥ ı ǝɔuɐɹɐǝddɐ ʇsɹıɟ ʎɯ uo ʇɐɥʇ pǝɯɐɥsɐ ɹǝɥʇɐɹ

    .ɹoop ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʎʇɹɐd ɹǝɥ oʇuı pǝʇ1ǝɯ ǝɥs sɐ ǝʇn1ɐs ʎʇunɐظ ɐ pǝʌɐʍ puɐɥ uʍoɹq ɹǝɥ—pǝʞ1ɐʇ ǝɥs sɐ ɟɟo buıʎɹɹnɥ sɐʍ ǝɥs ”. . . ʇunɐ ʎɯ . . . pɹɐʍoɥ ʎǝuɹnobıs .sɹɯ ɟo ǝɯɐu ǝɥʇ ɹǝpun . . . ʞooq ǝuoɥd . . . .ǝɯ ǝǝs puɐ ǝɯoɔ ǝsɐǝ1d“ :ǝɔɐɟ ʎɯ uı ʎ11nɟǝɔɐɹb pǝuʍɐʎ ǝɥs ”.noʎ buızı1ɐʇuɐʇ ɯɐ ı ǝɹǝɥ puɐ ʇı 11ǝʇ ʇ’up1noʍ ı ǝɹoʍs ı ʇnq“ .ʎ1pǝʇɔɐɹʇsqɐ pǝʇɐǝdǝɹ ǝɥs ”'buızɐɯɐ ʎ1dɯıs—sɐʍ ʇı“ ”.ɹnoɥ uɐ ʇnoqɐ 'ʎɥʍ“

    ”¿ǝɹǝɥʇ uı ǝʍ ǝɹǝʍ buo1 ʍoɥ“ .pǝɹǝdsıɥʍ ǝɥs ”'buıɥʇ buızɐɯɐ ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ pɹɐǝɥ ʇsnظ ǝʌ’ı“

    .spuɐɥ ǝʞɐɥs oʇ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ pǝɹǝbuı1 ǝɥs ʇnq 'ɥɔɹod ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɹǝɥ oʇ ʎ1ʇuǝıʇɐdɯı buı11ɐɔ ǝɹǝʍ ʎʇɹɐd s’uɐpɹoظ

    .ǝʎq-poob ʎɐs oʇ ɯıɥ pǝɥɔɐoɹddɐ ǝ1doǝd 1ɐɹǝʌǝs sɐ ʎʇı1ɐɯɹoɟ oʇuı ʎ1ʇdnɹqɐ pǝuǝʇɥbıʇ ɹǝuuɐɯ sıɥ uı ssǝuɹǝbɐǝ ǝɥʇ ʇnq 'ɹǝɥ oʇ pɹoʍ ʇsɐ1 ǝɯos buıʎɐs sɐʍ ǝɥ .ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ ʇno ǝɯɐɔ ʎqsʇɐb puɐ ɹǝʞɐq uɐpɹoظ puɐ pǝuǝdo ʎɹɐɹqı1 ǝɥʇ ɟo ɹoop ǝɥʇ 11ɐɥ ǝɥʇ uı ʇɐɥ ʎɯ ɹoɟ pǝʇıɐʍ ı sɐ

    .ʇɥbıu ǝɥʇ oʇuı 'buıʞɔıʞ 'pǝʇɟı1 ǝɹǝʍ sǝʌıʍ ɥʇoq puɐ 'ǝ1bbnɹʇs ʇɹoɥs ɐ uı pǝpuǝ ǝʇndsıp ǝɥʇ 'ʎʇı1ıqıpǝɹɔ puoʎǝq sɐʍ ǝɔuǝ1oʌǝ1ɐɯ ɥɔns ʇɐɥʇ ʇuǝɯǝǝɹbɐ ’sǝʌıʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝʇıds uı

    ”.obɐ ɹnoɥ uɐ ɟ1ɐɥ ʇɟǝ1 ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ“ .ʎ1ɥsıdǝǝɥs uǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo pıɐs ”'ʇɥbıu-oʇ ʇsɐ1 ǝɥʇ ʇsoɯ1ɐ ǝɹ’ǝʍ '11ǝʍ“

    ”.ǝʍ ǝɹɐ os“

    ”.ǝʌɐǝ1 oʇ sǝuo ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ sʎɐʍ1ɐ ǝɹ’ǝʍ“

    ”.ǝɟı1 ʎɯ uı ɥsıɟ1ǝs os buıɥʇʎuɐ pɹɐǝɥ ɹǝʌǝu“

    ”.ǝɯoɥ ob oʇ sʇuɐʍ ǝɥ ǝɯıʇ poob ɐ buıʌɐɥ ɯ’ı sǝǝs ǝɥ ɹǝʌǝuǝɥʍ“

    .sǝɔıoʌ pǝsıɐɹ ʎ1ʇɥbı1s uı ɹǝɥʇo ɥɔɐǝ ɥʇıʍ buızıɥʇɐdɯʎs ǝɹǝʍ sǝʌıʍ ǝɥʇ .sǝʌıʍ ʇuɐubıpuı ʎ1ɥbıɥ ɹıǝɥʇ puɐ uǝɯ ɹǝqos ʎ1qɐɹo1dǝp oʍʇ ʎq pǝıdnɔɔo ʇuǝsǝɹd ʇɐ sɐʍ 11ɐɥ ǝɥʇ .uǝɯ pɹɐʍʎɐʍ oʇ pǝuıɟuoɔ ʇou sɐʍ ǝɯoɥ ob oʇ ǝɔuɐʇɔn1ǝɹ ǝɥʇ

    .ɹɐǝ sıɥ oʇuı ”¡pǝsıɯoɹd noʎ“ :pǝssıɥ puɐ 'puoɯɐıp ʎɹbuɐ uɐ ǝʞı1 ǝpıs sıɥ ʇɐ ʎ1uǝppns pǝɹɐǝddɐ ǝɥs s1ɐʌɹǝʇuı ʇɐ—sʞɔɐʇʇɐ ʞuɐ1ɟ oʇ pǝʇɹosǝɹ puɐ ʎ1ǝɹıʇuǝ uʍop ǝʞoɹq 'ʎɐʍ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıpuı puɐ pǝıɟıubıp ɐ uı uoıʇɐnʇıs ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ɥbnɐ1 oʇ buıʇdɯǝʇʇɐ ɹǝʇɟɐ 'ǝɟıʍ sıɥ puɐ 'ssǝɹʇɔɐ bunoʎ ɐ oʇ ʎʇısuǝʇuı snoıɹnɔ ɥʇıʍ buıʞ1ɐʇ sɐʍ uǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo .uoısuǝssıp ʎq ɹǝpunsɐ ʇuǝɹ ǝɹǝʍ 'bbǝ ʇsɐǝ ɯoɹɟ ʇǝʇɹɐnb ǝɥʇ 'ʎʇɹɐd s’uɐpɹoظ uǝʌǝ .spuɐqsnɥ ɹıǝɥʇ ǝq oʇ pıɐs uǝɯ ɥʇıʍ sʇɥbıɟ buıʌɐɥ ʍou ǝɹǝʍ uǝɯoʍ buıuıɐɯǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇsoɯ .punoɹɐ pǝʞoo1 ı

    .ʍoq1ǝ ʎɯ ʇɐ 1ɹıb ɐ pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ”'puɐqsnɥ ɹǝɥ s’ǝɥ sʎɐs oɥʍ uɐɯ ɐ ɥʇıʍ ʇɥbıɟ ɐ pɐɥ ǝɥs“

    .dǝǝ1s snouıʌ dǝǝp ɐ oʇuı ɟɟo ʇuǝʍ puɐ 'ɹıɐɥɔ ɐ oʇuı ʞuɐs 'spuɐɥ ɹǝɥ dn ʍǝɹɥʇ ǝɥs uodnǝɹǝɥʍ 'ǝɔɐɟ ɹǝɥ uo sǝʇou ǝɥʇ buıs ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ ǝpɐɯ sɐʍ uoıʇsǝbbns snoɹoɯnɥ ɐ .sʇǝ1nʌıɹ ʞɔɐ1q ʍo1s uı ʎɐʍ ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ pǝnsɹnd puɐ 'ɹo1oɔ ʎʞuı uɐ pǝɯnssɐ ʎǝɥʇ sǝɥsɐ1ǝʎǝ pǝpɐǝq ʎ1ıʌɐǝɥ ɹǝɥ ɥʇıʍ ʇɔɐʇuoɔ oʇuı ǝɯɐɔ ʎǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ ɹoɟ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ 'ʎ1ǝǝɹɟ ʇou—sʞǝǝɥɔ ɹǝɥ uʍop pǝsɹnoɔ sɹɐǝʇ ǝɥʇ .ouɐɹdos buıɹǝʌɐnb ɐ uı uıɐbɐ ɔıɹʎ1 ǝɥʇ dn ʞooʇ uǝɥʇ puɐ 'sqos uǝʞoɹq 'buıdsɐb ɥʇıʍ ʇı pǝ11ıɟ ǝɥs buos ǝɥʇ uı ǝsnɐd ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ɹǝʌǝuǝɥʍ .ooʇ buıdǝǝʍ sɐʍ ǝɥs 'buıbuıs ʎ1uo ʇou sɐʍ ǝɥs—pɐs ʎɹǝʌ 'ʎɹǝʌ sɐʍ buıɥʇʎɹǝʌǝ ʇɐɥʇ 'ʎ1ʇdǝuı 'pǝpıɔǝp pɐɥ ǝɥs buos ɹǝɥ ɟo ǝsɹnoɔ ǝɥʇ buıɹnp puɐ 'ǝubɐdɯɐɥɔ ɟo ʎʇıʇuɐnb ɐ ʞunɹp pɐɥ ǝɥs .buos uı pǝbɐbuǝ 'snɹoɥɔ snoɯɐɟ ɐ ɯoɹɟ ʎpɐ1 bunoʎ pǝɹıɐɥ-pǝɹ '11ɐʇ ɐ pooʇs ɹǝɥ ǝpısǝq puɐ 'ouɐıd ǝɥʇ buıʎɐ1d sɐʍ ʍo11ǝʎ uı s1ɹıb ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo .ǝ1doǝd ɟo 11nɟ sɐʍ ɯooɹ ǝbɹɐ1 ǝɥʇ

    .ǝpısuı ʇuǝʍ ı 'ɯıɥ uıoظ oʇ ǝɯ pǝɹo1dɯı oɥʍ puɐ 's1ɹıb snɹoɥɔ oʍʇ ɥʇıʍ uoıʇɐsɹǝʌuoɔ 1ɐɔıɹʇǝʇsqo uɐ uı pǝbɐbuǝ ʍou sɐʍ oɥʍ 'ǝʇɐnpɐɹbɹǝpun s’uɐpɹoظ buıpn1ǝ .ǝɔɐɹɹǝʇ ǝɥʇ bunɥɹǝʌo ɥɔıɥʍ ɯooɹ pǝʍopuıʍ-ʎuɐɯ 'buo1 ɐ ɯoɹɟ pǝnssı pɐɥ spunos buınbıɹʇuı puɐ pǝsnɟuoɔ ǝɯıʇ ǝɯos ɹoɟ .oʍʇ ʇsoɯ1ɐ sɐʍ ʇı puɐ ǝuo1ɐ sɐʍ ı

    .sbuıuɹoɯ dsıɹɔ 'uɐǝ1ɔ uo sǝsɹnoɔ ɟ1ob uodn ʞ1ɐʍ oʇ pǝuɹɐǝ1 ʇsɹıɟ pɐɥ ǝɥs ɟı sɐ sʇuǝɯǝʌoɯ ɹǝɥ ʇnoqɐ ssǝuıʇunɐظ ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ—sǝɥʇo1ɔ sʇɹods ǝʞı1 'sǝssǝɹp ɹǝɥ 11ɐ 'ssǝɹp-buıuǝʌǝ ɹǝɥ ǝɹoʍ ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ pǝɔıʇou ı .ǝsnoɥ ǝɥʇ pɹɐʍoʇ ɹǝ1ʇnq ǝɥʇ pǝʍo11oɟ puɐ 'ʇuǝɯɥsıuoʇsɐ uı ǝɯ ʇɐ sʍoɹqǝʎǝ ɹǝɥ buısıɐɹ 'ʎ1ʍo1s dn ʇob ǝɥs

    ”.ǝɯɐpɐɯ 'sǝʎ“

    .ǝsıɹdɹns uı pǝɯıɐ1ɔxǝ ǝɥs ”¿ǝɯ ɥʇıʍ“

    ”.ǝuo1ɐ noʎ oʇ ʞɐǝds oʇ ǝʞı1 p1noʍ ʎqsʇɐb .ɹɯ ʇnq 'uopɹɐd ɹnoʎ bǝq ı“ .pǝɹınbuı ǝɥ ”¿ɹǝʞɐq ssıɯ“

    .sn ǝpısǝq buıpuɐʇs ʎ1uǝppns sɐʍ ɹǝ1ʇnq s’ʎqsʇɐb

    ”.uopɹɐd ɹnoʎ bǝq ı“

    .ʞuı1 ǝuo ɹoɟ pɐǝɥ s’ʎqsʇɐb ɥʇıʍ pǝɯɹoɟ ǝɹǝʍ sʇǝʇɹɐnb buıbuıs ou puɐ 'ɹǝp1noɥs s’ʎqsʇɐb pǝɥɔnoʇ qoq ɥɔuǝɹɟ ou puɐ 'ʎqsʇɐb uo pɹɐʍʞɔɐq pǝuooʍs ǝuo ou ʇnq—s11ɐɟ ɹıǝɥʇ ʇsǝɹɹɐ p1noʍ ǝuo ǝɯos ʇɐɥʇ buıʍouʞ 'sdnoɹb oʇuı uǝʌǝ 'sɯɹɐ s’uǝɯ oʇuı ʎ11nɟʎɐ1d pɹɐʍʞɔɐq buıuooʍs ǝɹǝʍ s1ɹıb 'ʎɐʍ 1ɐıʌıʌuoɔ 'ɥsıʎddnd ɐ uı sɹǝp1noɥs s’uǝɯ uo spɐǝɥ ɹıǝɥʇ buıʇʇnd ǝɹǝʍ s1ɹıb 'ɹǝʌo sɐʍ p1ɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇsıɥ zzɐظ ǝɥʇ uǝɥʍ .pǝsɐǝɹɔuı ʎʇıɹɐ1ıɥ 1ɐuɹǝʇɐɹɟ ǝɥʇ sɐ ʇɔǝɹɹoɔ ǝɹoɯ ʍǝɹb ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯ oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ʇı ɹoɟ 'sʇsǝnb sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ɟɟo ɯıɥ ʇǝs oʇ pǝd1ǝɥ buıʞuıɹp ʇou sɐʍ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ɟı pǝɹǝpuoʍ ı .ɯıɥ ʇnoqɐ ɹǝʇsıuıs buıɥʇou ǝǝs p1noɔ ı .ʎɐp ʎɹǝʌǝ pǝɯɯıɹʇ ǝɹǝʍ ʇı ɥbnoɥʇ sɐ pǝʞoo1 ɹıɐɥ ʇɹoɥs sıɥ puɐ ǝɔɐɟ sıɥ uo ʇɥbıʇ ʎ1ǝʌıʇɔɐɹʇʇɐ uʍɐɹp sɐʍ uıʞs pǝuuɐʇ sıɥ .sǝʎǝ buıʌoɹddɐ ɥʇıʍ ɹǝɥʇouɐ oʇ dnoɹb ǝuo ɯoɹɟ buıʞoo1 puɐ sdǝʇs ǝ1qɹɐɯ ǝɥʇ uo ǝuo1ɐ buıpuɐʇs 'ʎqsʇɐb uo 11ǝɟ sǝʎǝ ʎɯ uɐbǝq ʇı sɐ ʇsnظ ǝsnɐɔǝq 'ǝɯ pǝpn1ǝ uoıʇısodɯoɔ s’ɟɟoʇsoʇ .ɹɯ ɟo ǝɹnʇɐu ǝɥʇ

    ”.p1ɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇsıɥ zzɐظ s’ɟɟoʇsoʇ ɹıɯıpɐ1ʌ sɐ“ 'ʎ1ıʇsn1 pǝpn1ɔuoɔ ǝɥ ”'uʍouʞ sı ǝɔǝıd ǝɥʇ“

    .pǝɥbnɐ1 ʎpoqʎɹǝʌǝ uodnǝɹǝɥʍ ”¡uoıʇɐsuǝs ǝɯos“ :pǝppɐ puɐ 'uoısuǝɔsǝpuoɔ 1ɐıʌoظ ɥʇıʍ pǝ1ıɯs ǝɥ ”.uoıʇɐsuǝs bıq ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʍouʞ noʎ 'sɹǝdɐd ǝɥʇ pɐǝɹ noʎ ɟı .ʎɐɯ ʇsɐ1 11ɐɥ ǝıbǝuɹɐɔ ʇɐ uoıʇuǝʇʇɐ ɥɔnɯ os pǝʇɔɐɹʇʇɐ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ʞɹoʍ ʇsǝʇɐ1 s’ɟɟoʇsoʇ ɹıɯıpɐ1ʌ .ɹɯ noʎ ɹoɟ ʎɐ1d oʇ buıob ǝɹɐ ǝʍ ʎqsʇɐb .ɹɯ ɟo ʇsǝnbǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ“ .pǝıɹɔ ǝɥ ”'uǝɯǝ1ʇuǝb puɐ sǝıpɐ1“

    .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ɟo ɐı1ɐ1oɥɔǝ ǝɥʇ ǝʌoqɐ ʎ1uǝppns ʇno buɐɹ ɹǝpɐǝ1 ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔıoʌ ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ɯnɹp ssɐq ɐ ɟo ɯooq ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ

    ”.ʎɔɐʌıɹd ʎuɐ ʇ’usı ǝɹǝɥʇ sǝıʇɹɐd 11ɐɯs ʇɐ .ǝʇɐɯıʇuı os ǝɹ’ʎǝɥʇ .sǝıʇɹɐd ǝbɹɐ1 ǝʞı1 ı puɐ“ .ǝʇǝɹɔuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ǝʇsɐʇsıp ǝuɐqɹn uɐ ɥʇıʍ ʇɔǝظqns ǝɥʇ buıbuɐɥɔ 'uɐpɹoظ pıɐs ”'sǝıʇɹɐd ǝbɹɐ1 sǝʌıb ǝɥ 'ʍoɥʎuɐ“

    .punos puɐ1sı buo1 uo ǝɔɐ1ɐd ɐ ʎnq puɐ ǝɹǝɥʍou ɟo ʇno ʎ11ooɔ ʇɟıɹp—ʇ’upıp ʎǝɥʇ pǝʌǝı1ǝq ı ǝɔuǝıɹǝdxǝuı 1ɐıɔuıʌoɹd ʎɯ uı ʇsɐǝ1 ʇɐ—ʇ’upıp uǝɯ bunoʎ ʇnq .ǝ1qısuǝɥǝɹdɯoɔ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ .ʞɹoʎ ʍǝu ɟo ǝpıs ʇsɐǝ ɹǝʍo1 ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɹo ɐuɐısıno1 ɟo sdɯɐʍs ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ buɐɹds ʎqsʇɐb ʇɐɥʇ uoıʇɐɯɹoɟuı ǝɥʇ uoıʇsǝnb ʇnoɥʇıʍ pǝʇdǝɔɔɐ ǝʌɐɥ p1noʍ ı .ʎʇısoıɹnɔ ʎɯ buıʇɐ1nɯıʇs ɟo ʇɔǝɟɟǝ ǝɥʇ pɐɥ puɐ ”'uɐɯ ɐ pǝ11ıʞ ǝɥ ʞuıɥʇ ı“ s’1ɹıb ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯ pǝpuıɯǝɹ ǝuoʇ ɹǝɥ uı buıɥʇǝɯos

    ”.ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇuǝʍ ǝɥ ʞuıɥʇ ʇ’uop ʇsnظ ı“ 'pǝʇsısuı ǝɥs ”'ʍouʞ ʇ’uop ı“ ”¿ʇou ʎɥʍ“

    ”.ʇı ǝʌǝı1ǝq ʇ’uop ı 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ“

    .ʎɐʍɐ pǝpɐɟ ʇı ʞɹɐɯǝɹ ʇxǝu ɹǝɥ ʇɐ ʇnq 'ɯıɥ puıɥǝq ǝdɐɥs ǝʞɐʇ oʇ pǝʇɹɐʇs punoɹbʞɔɐq ɯıp ɐ ”.uɐɯ pɹoɟxo uɐ sɐʍ ǝɥ ǝɔuo ǝɯ p1oʇ ǝɥ '11ǝʍ“ .ǝ1ıɯs uɐʍ ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝɹǝʍsuɐ ǝɥs ”'ʇɔǝظqns ǝɥʇ uo pǝʇɹɐʇs ǝɹ’noʎ ʍou“

    ”¿op ǝɥ sǝop ʇɐɥʍ puɐ ¿uɐǝɯ ı 'ɯoɹɟ ǝɥ sı ǝɹǝɥʍ“

    ”.ʎqsʇɐb pǝɯɐu uɐɯ ɐ ʇsnظ s’ǝɥ“

    ”¿ʍouʞ noʎ op“

    .pǝpuɐɯǝp ı ”¿ǝɥ sı oɥʍ“

    .sɹɐǝʎ ǝ1ppıɯ sıɥ uı uosɹǝd ʇuǝ1ndɹoɔ puɐ pıɹo1ɟ ɐ ǝq p1noʍ ʎqsʇɐb .ɹɯ ʇɐɥʇ pǝʇɔǝdxǝ pɐɥ ı .ǝsıɹdɹns ʎɯ ɟo ɹǝɥ ǝɹnssɐ oʇ pǝuıɐɹʇsuoɔ—uɐpɹoظ oʇ ʎ1ǝʇɐıpǝɯɯı pǝuɹnʇ ı ǝuob sɐʍ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ

    ”.ɹǝʇɐ1 noʎ uıoظǝɹ 11ıʍ ı .ǝɯ ǝsnɔxǝ“ .ǝɯ pǝbɹn ǝɥ ”'ʇɹods p1o 'ʇı ɹoɟ ʞsɐ ʇsnظ buıɥʇʎuɐ ʇuɐʍ noʎ ɟı“

    .uɹnʇ uı sn ɟo ɥɔɐǝ pǝpn1ɔuı ʇɐɥʇ ʍoq 11ɐɯs ɐ ɥʇıʍ ɟ1ǝsɯıɥ pǝsnɔxǝ ǝɥ .ǝɹıʍ ǝɥʇ uo ɯıɥ buı11ɐɔ sɐʍ obɐɔıɥɔ ʇɐɥʇ uoıʇɐɯɹoɟuı ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ɯıɥ pɹɐʍoʇ pǝıɹɹnɥ ɹǝ1ʇnq ɐ 'ɟ1ǝsɯıɥ pǝıɟıʇuǝpı ʎqsʇɐb .ɹɯ uǝɥʍ ʇuǝɯoɯ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʇsoɯ1ɐ

    .ǝɹɐɔ ɥʇıʍ spɹoʍ sıɥ buıʞɔıd sɐʍ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ uoıssǝɹdɯı buoɹʇs ɐ ʇob p’ı ɟ1ǝsɯıɥ pǝɔnpoɹʇuı ǝɥ ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɯıʇ ǝɯos .pɹnsqɐ buıǝq pǝssıɯ ʇsnظ ɥɔǝǝds ɟo ʎʇı1ɐɯɹoɟ ǝʇɐɹoqɐ1ǝ ǝsoɥʍ 'ʎʇɹıɥʇ ɹǝʌo oʍʇ ɹo ɹɐǝʎ ɐ 'ʞɔǝu-ɥbnoɹ bunoʎ ʇuɐbǝ1ǝ uɐ ʇɐ buıʞoo1 sɐʍ ı puɐ—pǝɥsıuɐʌ ʇı ʇuıod ʇɐɥʇ ʇɐ ʎ1ǝsıɔǝɹd .ʎǝʌuoɔ oʇ pǝdoɥ noʎ 'ʇsǝq ɹnoʎ ʇɐ 'ʇɐɥʇ noʎ ɟo uoıssǝɹdɯı ǝɥʇ ʎ1ǝsıɔǝɹd pɐɥ ʇı ʇɐɥʇ noʎ pǝɹnssɐ puɐ 'ɟ1ǝsɹnoʎ uı ǝʌǝı1ǝq oʇ ǝʞı1 p1noʍ noʎ sɐ noʎ uı pǝʌǝı1ǝq 'pooʇsɹǝpun ǝq oʇ pǝʇuɐʍ noʎ sɐ ɹɐɟ os ʇsnظ noʎ pooʇsɹǝpun ʇı .ɹoʌɐɟ ɹnoʎ uı ǝɔıpnظǝɹd ǝ1qıʇsısǝɹɹı uɐ ɥʇıʍ noʎ uo pǝʇɐɹʇuǝɔuoɔ uǝɥʇ puɐ 'ʇuɐʇsuı uɐ ɹoɟ p1ɹoʍ 1ɐuɹǝʇxǝ ǝ1oɥʍ ǝɥʇ—ǝɔɐɟ oʇ pǝɯǝǝs ɹo—pǝɔɐɟ ʇı .ǝɟı1 uı sǝɯıʇ ǝʌıɟ ɹo ɹnoɟ ssoɹɔɐ ǝɯoɔ ʎɐɯ noʎ ʇɐɥʇ 'ʇı uı ǝɔuɐɹnssɐǝɹ 1ɐuɹǝʇǝ ɟo ʎʇı1ɐnb ɐ ɥʇıʍ sǝ1ıɯs ǝɹɐɹ ǝsoɥʇ ɟo ǝuo sɐʍ ʇı .ʎ1buıpuɐʇsɹǝpun uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ ɥɔnɯ—ʎ1buıpuɐʇsɹǝpun pǝ1ıɯs ǝɥ

    ”.ʇsoɥ poob ʎɹǝʌ ɐ ʇou ɯ’ı pıɐɹɟɐ ɯ’ı .ʇɹods p1o 'ʍǝuʞ noʎ ʇɥbnoɥʇ ı“

    ”.uopɹɐd ɹnoʎ bǝq ı 'ɥo“ .pǝɯıɐ1ɔxǝ ı ”¡ʇɐɥʍ“

    .ʎ1uǝppns pıɐs ǝɥ ”'ʎqsʇɐb ɯ’ı“

    .puɐʇsɹǝpun oʇ pǝ1ıɐɟ ǝɥ ɟı sɐ ǝɯ ʇɐ pǝʞoo1 ǝɥ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ ”.uoıʇɐʇıʌuı uɐ ɥʇıʍ ɹnǝɟɟnɐɥɔ sıɥ ɹǝʌo ʇuǝs ʎqsʇɐb uɐɯ sıɥʇ puɐ“ 'ǝɔuɐʇsıp ǝɥʇ uı ǝbpǝɥ ǝ1qısıʌuı ǝɥʇ ʇɐ puɐɥ ʎɯ pǝʌɐʍ ı ”——ǝɹǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo ǝʌı1 ı .ʇsoɥ ǝɥʇ uǝǝs uǝʌǝ ʇ’uǝʌɐɥ ı .ǝɯ ɹoɟ ʎʇɹɐd 1ɐnsnun uɐ sı sıɥʇ“ .ǝɔuɐʇuıɐnbɔɐ ʍǝu ʎɯ oʇ uıɐbɐ pǝuɹnʇ ı ”.ɹǝʇʇǝq ɥɔnɯ“

    .pǝɹınbuı ǝɥs ”¿ʍou ǝɯıʇ ʎɐb ɐ buıʌɐɥ“

    .pǝ1ıɯs puɐ punoɹɐ pǝʞoo1 uɐpɹoظ uǝɥʍ ǝɯɐu sıɥ ʞsɐ oʇ ǝnbuoʇ ʎɯ ɟo dıʇ ǝɥʇ uo sɐʍ ʇı

    ”.ʇsǝq noʎ sʇıns ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯıʇ ʎuɐ“

    ”¿ǝɯıʇ ʇɐɥʍ“

    ”.punos ǝɥʇ buo1ɐ ǝɹoɥs ǝɥʇ ɹɐǝu ʇsnظ ¿ʇɹods p1o 'ǝɯ ɥʇıʍ ob oʇ ʇuɐʍ“

    .buıuɹoɯ ǝɥʇ uı ʇno ʇı ʎɹʇ oʇ buıob sɐʍ puɐ 'ǝuɐ1doɹpʎɥ ɐ ʇɥbnoq ʇsnظ pɐɥ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯ p1oʇ ǝɥ ɹoɟ 'ʎʇıuıɔıʌ sıɥʇ uı pǝʌı1 ǝɥ ʎ1ʇuǝpıʌǝ .ǝɔuɐɹɟ uı sǝbɐ11ıʌ ǝ1ʇʇı1 ʎɐɹb 'ʇǝʍ ǝɯos ʇnoqɐ ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ pǝʞ1ɐʇ ǝʍ

    ”.ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɹǝɥʍǝɯos noʎ uǝǝs p’ı ʍǝuʞ ı .uǝǝʇɥbıǝ-uǝǝʇǝuıu ǝunظ 1ıʇun ʎɹʇuɐɟuı ɥʇuǝʌǝs ǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ı“

    ”.uoı1ɐʇʇɐq unb-ǝuıɥɔɐɯ ɥʇuıu ǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ı .sǝʎ 'ʎɥʍ“

    ”¿ɹɐʍ ǝɥʇ buıɹnp uoısıʌıp pɹıɥʇ ǝɥʇ uı noʎ ʇ’uǝɹǝʍ“ .ʎ1ǝʇı1od 'pıɐs ǝɥ ”'ɹɐı1ıɯɐɟ sı ǝɔɐɟ ɹnoʎ“

    .pǝ1ıɯs puɐ ǝɯ ʇɐ pǝʞoo1 uɐɯ ǝɥʇ ʇuǝɯuıɐʇɹǝʇuǝ ǝɥʇ uı 11n1 ɐ ʇɐ

    .punoɟoɹd puɐ '1ɐʇuǝɯǝ1ǝ 'ʇuɐɔıɟıubıs buıɥʇǝɯos oʇuı sǝʎǝ ʎɯ ǝɹoɟǝq pǝbuɐɥɔ pɐɥ ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ǝubɐdɯɐɥɔ ɟo s1ʍoq-ɹǝbuıɟ oʍʇ uǝʞɐʇ pɐɥ ı .ʍou ɟ1ǝsʎɯ buıʎoظuǝ sɐʍ ı .ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 ǝ1qɐ11oɹʇuoɔun oʇ uoıʇɐɔoʌoɹd ʇsǝʇɥbı1s ǝɥʇ uodn ʎɐʍ ǝʌɐb oɥʍ '1ɹıb ǝ1ʇʇı1 ʎpʍoɹ ɐ puɐ ǝbɐ ʎɯ ʇnoqɐ ɟo uɐɯ ɐ ɥʇıʍ ǝ1qɐʇ ɐ ʇɐ buıʇʇıs ǝɹǝʍ ǝʍ .ɹǝʞɐq uɐpɹoظ ɥʇıʍ 11ıʇs sɐʍ ı

    .uʍɐ1 ǝɥʇ uo sǝoظuɐq ǝɥʇ ɟo dıɹp ʎuuıʇ 'ɟɟıʇs ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ buı1qɯǝɹʇ 'sǝ1ɐɔs ɹǝʌ1ıs ɟo ǝ1buɐıɹʇ ɐ sɐʍ punos ǝɥʇ uı buıʇɐo1ɟ puɐ 'ɹǝɥbıɥ uǝsıɹ pɐɥ uooɯ ǝɥʇ .s1ʍoq-ɹǝbuıɟ uɐɥʇ ɹǝbbıq sǝssɐ1b uı pǝʌɹǝs sɐʍ ǝubɐdɯɐɥɔ puɐ 'ǝɯnʇsoɔ uı ʇɔɐ ʎqɐq ɐ pıp 'ʍo11ǝʎ uı s1ɹıb ǝɥʇ ǝq oʇ ʇno pǝuɹnʇ oɥʍ 'suıʍʇ ǝbɐʇs ɟo ɹıɐd ɐ .ʎʞs ɹǝɯɯns ǝɥʇ pɹɐʍoʇ ǝsoɹ ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 ɟo sʇsɹnq snonɔɐʌ 'ʎddɐɥ ǝ1ıɥʍ 'uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo 11ɐ ”.sʇunʇs“ buıop ǝɹǝʍ ǝ1doǝd sɹǝqɯnu ǝɥʇ uǝǝʍʇǝq puɐ 'zzɐظ uı buns pɐɥ oʇ1ɐɹʇuoɔ snoıɹoʇou ɐ puɐ 'uɐı1ɐʇı uı buns pɐɥ ɹouǝʇ pǝʇɐɹqǝ1ǝɔ ɐ .pǝsɐǝɹɔuı pɐɥ ʎʇıɹɐ1ıɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɥbıupıɯ ʎq .sdɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ɹo oظuɐq ǝɥʇ ɟo uǝpɹnq ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ ɹoɟ ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ buıʌǝı1ǝɹ ɹo ʎ11ɐɔıʇsı1ɐnpıʌıpuı buıɔuɐp s1ɹıb ǝ1buıs ɟo ɹǝqɯnu ʇɐǝɹb ɐ puɐ—sɹǝuɹoɔ ǝɥʇ uı buıdǝǝʞ puɐ 'ʎ1qɐuoıɥsɐɟ 'ʎ1snonʇɹoʇ ɹǝɥʇo ɥɔɐǝ buıp1oɥ sǝ1dnoɔ ɹoıɹǝdns 'sǝ1ɔɹıɔ ssǝ1ǝɔɐɹb 1ɐuɹǝʇǝ uı pɹɐʍʞɔɐq s1ɹıb bunoʎ buıɥsnd uǝɯ p1o ;uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ uı sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʍou buıɔuɐp sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ

    .sɹoopʇno ʞɔɐq ʇuǝʍ puɐ ʎ1ǝʌɐɹb ɯıɥ ɥʇıʍ spuɐɥ ʞooɥs ǝʍ ”.sn p1oʇ noʎ“

    ”——ǝɹ’ʎǝɥʇ .1ɐǝɹ ǝɹ’ʎǝɥʇ ¿sʞooq ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ noʎ 11ǝʇ ı pıp .ɹnoɥ uɐ ǝɹǝɥ uǝǝq ʎ1uo ǝʌ’ı .ʇǝʎ 11ǝʇ ʇ’uɐɔ ı .ʞuıɥʇ ı 'ʇıq ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ“

    ”¿ʇı sɐɥ“

    ”.ʎɹɐɹqı1 ɐ uı ʇıs oʇ dn ǝɯ ɹǝqos ʇɥbıɯ ʇı ʇɥbnoɥʇ ı puɐ 'ʍou ʞǝǝʍ ɐ ʇnoqɐ ɹoɟ ʞunɹp uǝǝq ǝʌ’ı .ʇɥbıu ʇsɐ1 ǝɹǝɥʍǝɯos ɹǝɥ ʇǝɯ ı ¿ɹǝɥ ʍouʞ noʎ op .ʇ1ǝʌǝsooɹ pnɐ1ɔ .sɹɯ“ .pǝnuıʇuoɔ ǝɥ ”'ʇ1ǝʌǝsooɹ pǝɯɐu uɐɯoʍ ɐ ʎq ʇɥbnoɹq sɐʍ ı“

    .buıɹǝʍsuɐ ʇnoɥʇıʍ 'ʎ11nɟɹǝǝɥɔ 'ʎ1ʇɹǝ1ɐ ɯıɥ ʇɐ pǝʞoo1 uɐpɹoظ

    ”.ʇɥbnoɹq ǝɹǝʍ ǝ1doǝd ʇsoɯ .ʇɥbnoɹq sɐʍ ı ¿ǝɯoɔ ʇsnظ noʎ pıp ɹo“ .pǝpuɐɯǝp ǝɥ ”¿noʎ ʇɥbnoɹq oɥʍ“

    .ǝsdɐ11oɔ oʇ ǝ1qɐı1 sɐʍ ʎɹɐɹqı1 ǝ1oɥʍ ǝɥʇ pǝʌoɯǝɹ sɐʍ ʞɔıɹq ǝuo ɟı ʇɐɥʇ buıɹǝʇʇnɯ 'ɟ1ǝɥs sʇı uo ʎ1ıʇsɐɥ ʇı pǝɔɐ1dǝɹ puɐ ǝɯ ɯoɹɟ ʞooq ǝɥʇ pǝɥɔʇɐus ǝɥ

    ”¿ʇɔǝdxǝ noʎ op ʇɐɥʍ ¿ʇuɐʍ noʎ op ʇɐɥʍ ʇnq .sǝbɐd ǝɥʇ ʇnɔ ʇ’upıp—ooʇ 'doʇs oʇ uǝɥʍ ʍǝuʞ ¡ɯsı1ɐǝɹ ʇɐɥʍ ¡ssǝuɥbnoɹoɥʇ ʇɐɥʍ .ɥdɯnıɹʇ ɐ s’ʇı .oɔsɐ1ǝq ɹɐ1nbǝɹ ɐ s’ɐ11ǝɟ sıɥʇ .ǝɯ pǝ1ooɟ ʇı .ɹǝʇʇɐɯ pǝʇuıɹd ɟo ǝɔǝıd ǝpıɟ-ɐuoq ɐ s’ʇı“ .ʎ1ʇuɐɥdɯnıɹʇ pǝıɹɔ ǝɥ ”¡ǝǝs“

    ”.sǝɹnʇɔǝ1 pɹɐppoʇs“ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ǝɯn1oʌ ɥʇıʍ pǝuɹnʇǝɹ puɐ sǝsɐɔʞooq ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝɥsnɹ ǝɥ 'pǝʇuɐɹb ɹoɟ ɯsıɔıʇdǝɔs ɹno buıʞɐʇ

    ”.noʎ ʍoɥs ǝɯɯǝ1 ¡ǝɹǝɥ—puɐ sǝbɐd .1ɐǝɹ ʎ1ǝʇn1osqɐ ǝɹ’ʎǝɥʇ 'ʇɔɐɟ ɟo ɹǝʇʇɐɯ .pɹɐoqpɹɐɔ ǝ1qɐɹnp ǝɔıu ɐ ǝq p’ʎǝɥʇ ʇɥbnoɥʇ ı .buıɥʇʎɹǝʌǝ puɐ sǝbɐd ǝʌɐɥ—1ɐǝɹ ʎ1ǝʇn1osqɐ“

    .pǝppou ǝɥ

    ”¿sʞooq ǝɥʇ“

    ”.1ɐǝɹ ǝɹ’ʎǝɥʇ .pǝuıɐʇɹǝɔsɐ ı .uıɐʇɹǝɔsɐ oʇ ɹǝɥʇoq ʇ’upǝǝu noʎ ʇɔɐɟ ɟo ɹǝʇʇɐɯ ɐ sɐ .ʇɐɥʇ ʇnoqɐ“

    .sǝʌ1ǝɥs-ʞooq ǝɥʇ pɹɐʍoʇ puɐɥ sıɥ pǝʌɐʍ ǝɥ ”¿ʇɐɥʍ ʇnoqɐ“

    .ʎ1snonʇǝdɯı pǝpuɐɯǝp ǝɥ ”¿ʞuıɥʇ noʎ op ʇɐɥʍ“

    .ʇooɟ oʇ pɐǝɥ ɯoɹɟ uɐpɹoظ pǝuıɯɐxǝ puɐ punoɹɐ ʎ1pǝʇıɔxǝ pǝ1ǝǝɥʍ ǝɥ pǝɹǝʇuǝ ǝʍ sɐ .sʞooq ɟo sǝʌ1ǝɥs ǝɥʇ ʇɐ uoıʇɐɹʇuǝɔuoɔ ʎpɐǝʇsun ɥʇıʍ buıɹɐʇs 'ǝ1qɐʇ ʇɐǝɹb ɐ ɟo ǝbpǝ ǝɥʇ uo ʞunɹp ʇɐɥʍǝɯos buıʇʇıs sɐʍ 'sǝ1ɔɐʇɔǝds pǝʎǝ-1ʍo snoɯɹouǝ ɥʇıʍ 'uɐɯ pǝbɐ-ǝ1ppıɯ 'ʇnoʇs ɐ

    .sɐǝsɹǝʌo uınɹ ǝɯos ɯoɹɟ ǝʇǝ1dɯoɔ pǝʇɹodsuɐɹʇ ʎ1qɐqoɹd puɐ 'ʞɐo ɥsı1buǝ pǝʌɹɐɔ ɥʇıʍ pǝ11ǝuɐd 'ʎɹɐɹqı1 ɔıɥʇob ɥbıɥ ɐ oʇuı pǝʞ1ɐʍ puɐ 'ɹoop buıʞoo1-ʇuɐʇɹodɯı uɐ pǝıɹʇ ǝʍ ǝɔuɐɥɔ ɐ uo .ɐpuɐɹǝʌ ǝɥʇ uo ʇ’usɐʍ ǝɥ puɐ 'sdǝʇs ǝɥʇ ɟo doʇ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɯıɥ puıɟ ʇ’up1noɔ ǝɥs .ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇou sɐʍ ʎqsʇɐb ʇnq 'pǝpʍoɹɔ sɐʍ 'ʇsɹıɟ pǝɔuɐ1b ǝʍ ǝɹǝɥʍ 'ɹɐq ǝɥʇ

    .ʎɐʍ ʎ1oɥɔuɐ1ǝɯ '1ɐɔıuʎɔ ɐ uı pǝppou ǝʇɐnpɐɹbɹǝpun ǝɥʇ .ʎsɐǝun ǝɯ buıʞɐɯ sɐʍ ʇı puɐ 'pıɐs ǝɥs 'ɯıɥ ʇǝɯ ɹǝʌǝu pɐɥ ı :ʇsoɥ ǝɥʇ puıɟ oʇ buıob ǝɹǝʍ ǝʍ ʇɐɥʇ pǝuıɐ1dxǝ ǝɥs puɐ 'dn ʇob ǝʍ

    ”.ǝɯ ɹoɟ ǝʇı1od ooʇ ɥɔnɯ sı sıɥʇ“ .ɹnoɥ-ɟ1ɐɥ ǝʇɐıɹdoɹddɐuı puɐ 1nɟǝʇsɐʍ ʍoɥǝɯos ɐ ɹǝʇɟɐ 'uɐpɹoظ pǝɹǝdsıɥʍ ”'ʇno ʇǝb s’ʇǝ1“

    .ʎʇǝʎɐb ɔıdoɔsoɹʇɔǝds sʇı ʇsuıɐbɐ pɹɐnb uo ʎ11nɟǝɹɐɔ puɐ 'bbǝ ʇsǝʍ oʇ buıpuǝɔsǝpuoɔ bbǝ ʇsɐǝ—ǝpıs-ʎɹʇunoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇı1ıqou pıɐʇs ǝɥʇ buıʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ɟo uoıʇɔunɟ ǝɥʇ ɟ1ǝsʇı oʇ pǝɯnssɐ puɐ 'ʎʇıǝuǝboɯoɥ pǝıɟıubıp ɐ pǝʌɹǝsǝɹd pɐɥ ʎʇɹɐd sıɥʇ 'buı1qɯɐɹ ɟo pɐǝʇsuı .ǝǝɹbǝp ɹǝssǝ1 ɹo ɹǝʇɐǝɹb ɐ oʇ uosɹǝd ɹǝɥ dn ɯıɥ p1ǝıʎ oʇ buıob sɐʍ uɐpɹoظ ɹǝʇɐ1 ɹo ɹǝuoos ʇɐɥʇ uoıssǝɹdɯı ǝɥʇ ɹǝpun ʎ1snoıʌqo puɐ 'opuǝnuuı ʇuǝ1oıʌ oʇ uǝʌıb ǝʇɐnpɐɹbɹǝpun ʇuǝʇsısɹǝd ɐ 'ʇɹoɔsǝ s’uɐpɹoظ puɐ sǝ1dnoɔ pǝıɹɹɐɯ ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɹǝʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ uo ǝ1qɐʇ ɐ punoɹɐ pɐǝɹds ǝɹǝʍ oɥʍ 'ʎʇɹɐd uʍo ɹǝɥ uıoظ oʇ ǝɯ pǝʇıʌuı uɐpɹoظ puɐ 'pǝʌɹǝs buıǝq ʍou sɐʍ—ʇɥbıupıɯ ɹǝʇɟɐ ǝuo ɹǝɥʇouɐ ǝq p1noʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ—ɹǝddns ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ

    .p1ɹoʍ sıɥʇ uı ʇnoqɐ ɹǝdsıɥʍ oʇ ʎɹɐssǝɔǝu sɐʍ ʇı ʇɐɥʇ ǝ1ʇʇı1 punoɟ oɥʍ ǝsoɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɯıɥ ʇnoqɐ sɹǝdsıɥʍ ǝɹǝʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ pǝɹıdsuı ǝɥ uoıʇɐ1nɔǝds ɔıʇuɐɯoɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ ʎuoɯıʇsǝʇ sɐʍ ʇı .ʎqsʇɐb ɹoɟ punoɹɐ pǝʞoo1 puɐ pǝuɹnʇ 11ɐ ǝʍ .pǝɹǝʌıɥs ǝ11ıɔn1 .pǝɹǝʌıɥs puɐ sǝʎǝ ɹǝɥ pǝʍoɹɹɐu ǝɥs

    ”.uɐɯ ɐ pǝ11ıʞ ǝɥ ʇǝq 11’ı .ɯıɥ ʇɐ buıʞoo1 s’ʎpoqou sʞuıɥʇ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ sǝɯıʇǝɯos ɯıɥ ʇɐ ʞoo1 noʎ“ .ɯsɐısnɥʇuǝ ɥʇıʍ pɹɐʍɹoɟ pǝuɐǝ1 ǝɥs ɹǝɥ oʇ ʞɔɐq pǝɥɔʇıʍs ʎʇı1npǝɹɔ ɹno sɐ ”.ɹɐʍ ǝɥʇ buıɹnp ʎɯɹɐ uɐɔıɹǝɯɐ ǝɥʇ uı sɐʍ ǝɥ ǝsnɐɔǝq 'ʇɐɥʇ ǝq ʇ’up1noɔ ʇı“ '1ɹıb ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ pıɐs ”'ou 'ɥo“

    .ʎ1ǝʌıʇısod sn pǝɹnssɐ ǝɥ ”'ʎuɐɯɹǝb uı ɯıɥ ɥʇıʍ dn ʍǝɹb 'ɯıɥ ʇnoqɐ 11ɐ ʍǝuʞ oɥʍ uɐɯ ɐ ɯoɹɟ ʇɐɥʇ pɹɐǝɥ ı“

    .uoıʇɐɯɹıɟuoɔ uı pǝppou uǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo

    ”.ɹɐʍ ǝɥʇ buıɹnp ʎds uɐɯɹǝb ɐ sɐʍ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ s’ʇı“ ;ʎ11ɐɔıʇdǝɔs ǝ11ıɔn1 pǝnbɹɐ ”'ʇɐɥʇ ɥɔnɯ os s’ʇı ʞuıɥʇ ʇ’uop ı“

    .ʎ1ɹǝbɐǝ pǝuǝʇsı1 puɐ pɹɐʍɹoɟ ʇuǝq sǝ1qɯnɯ .ɹɯ ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɥʇ .sn ɟo 11ɐ ɹǝʌo pǝssɐd 11ıɹɥʇ ɐ

    ”.ǝɔuo uɐɯ ɐ pǝ11ıʞ ǝɥ ʇɥbnoɥʇ ʎǝɥʇ ǝɯ p1oʇ ʎpoqǝɯos“

    .ʎ11ɐıʇuǝpıɟuoɔ ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ pǝuɐǝ1 uɐpɹoظ puɐ s1ɹıb oʍʇ ǝɥʇ

    ”——ǝɯ p1oʇ ʎpoqǝɯos .ʎqsʇɐb“

    .pǝɹınbuı ı ”¿ʇ’usǝop oɥʍ“

    ”.ʎpoqʎuɐ ɥʇıʍ ǝ1qnoɹʇ ʎuɐ ʇuɐʍ ʇ’usǝop ǝɥ“ .ʎ1ɹǝbɐǝ 1ɹıb ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ pıɐs ”'ʇɐɥʇ ǝʞı1 buıɥʇ ɐ op 11’ʇɐɥʇ ʍo11ǝɟ ɐ ʇnoqɐ ʎuunɟ buıɥʇǝɯos s’ǝɹǝɥʇ“

    ”.sɹɐ11op ǝʌıɟ-ʎʇxıs puɐ pǝɹpunɥ oʍʇ .spɐǝq ɹǝpuǝʌɐ1 ɥʇıʍ ǝn1q sɐb sɐʍ ʇı .pǝɹǝʇ1ɐ ǝq oʇ pɐɥ puɐ ʇsnq ǝɥʇ uı bıq ooʇ sɐʍ ʇı ʇnq 'ʇɥbıu-oʇ ʇı ɹɐǝʍ oʇ buıob sɐʍ ı .pıp ı ǝɹns“

    .uɐpɹoظ pǝʞsɐ ”¿ʇı dǝǝʞ noʎ pıp“

    ”.ʇı uı uʍob buıuǝʌǝ ʍǝu ɐ ɥʇıʍ s’ɹǝıɹıoɹɔ ɯoɹɟ ǝbɐʞɔɐd ɐ ʇob ı ʞǝǝʍ ɐ ɟo ǝpısuı—ssǝɹppɐ puɐ ǝɯɐu ʎɯ ǝɯ pǝʞsɐ ǝɥ puɐ 'ɹıɐɥɔ ɐ uo uʍob ʎɯ ǝɹoʇ ı ʇsɐ1 ǝɹǝɥ sɐʍ ı uǝɥʍ .ǝɯıʇ poob ɐ ǝʌɐɥ sʎɐʍ1ɐ ı os 'op ı ʇɐɥʍ ǝɹɐɔ ɹǝʌǝu ı“ .pıɐs ǝ11ıɔn1 ”'ǝɯoɔ oʇ ǝʞı1 ı“

    .ooʇ 'ǝ11ıɔn1 ɹoɟ sɐʍ ʇı

    ”¿ǝ11ıɔn1 'noʎ ɹoɟ ʇı ʇ’usɐʍ“ :uoıuɐdɯoɔ ɹǝɥ oʇ pǝuɹnʇ ǝɥs .ǝɔıoʌ ʇuǝpıɟuoɔ ʇɹǝ1ɐ uɐ uı '1ɹıb ǝɥʇ pǝɹǝʍsuɐ ”'ʇɐ noʎ ʇǝɯ ı ǝuo ǝɥʇ sɐʍ ǝuo ʇsɐ1 ǝɥʇ“

    .ɹǝɥ ǝpısǝq 1ɹıb ǝɥʇ ɟo uɐpɹoظ pǝɹınbuı ”¿uǝʇɟo sǝıʇɹɐd ǝsǝɥʇ oʇ ǝɯoɔ noʎ op“

    .ǝ1qɯnɯ .ɹɯ sɐ sn oʇ pǝɔnpoɹʇuı ǝuo ɥɔɐǝ 'uǝɯ ǝǝɹɥʇ puɐ ʍo11ǝʎ uı s1ɹıb oʍʇ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝ1qɐʇ ɐ ʇɐ uʍop ʇɐs ǝʍ puɐ 'ʇɥbı1ıʍʇ ǝɥʇ ɥbnoɹɥʇ sn ʇɐ pǝʇɐo1ɟ s1ıɐʇʞɔoɔ ɟo ʎɐɹʇ ɐ .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ pǝɹǝʇunɐs puɐ sdǝʇs ǝɥʇ pǝpuǝɔsǝp ǝʍ 'ǝuıɯ uı buıʇsǝɹ ɯɹɐ uǝp1ob ɹǝpuǝ1s s’uɐpɹoظ ɥʇıʍ .ʇǝʞsɐq s’ɹǝɹǝʇɐɔ ɐ ɟo ʇno 'ʇqnop ou 'ɹǝddns ǝɥʇ ǝʞı1 pǝɔnpoɹd 'uooɯ ǝɹnʇɐɯǝɹd ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝssǝɹppɐ sɐʍ ʞɹɐɯǝɹ ɹǝɥ puɐ uo ʎ11ɐnsɐɔ pǝʌoɯ pɐɥ s1ɹıb ǝɥʇ ʇnq 'pǝʇɹɐʇs ı puɐ 'uɐpɹoظ pǝʞɹɐɯǝɹ ”'uǝɥʇ ǝɔuıs ɹıɐɥ ɹnoʎ pǝʎp ǝʌ’noʎ“

    ”.obɐ ɥʇuoɯ ɐ ʇnoqɐ ǝɹǝɥ noʎ ʇǝɯ ǝʍ ʇnq“ 'ʍo11ǝʎ uı s1ɹıb ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo pıɐs ”'ǝɹɐ ǝʍ oɥʍ ʍouʞ ʇ’uop noʎ“

    .ǝɹoɟǝq ʞǝǝʍ ǝɥʇ s1ɐuıɟ ǝɥʇ uı ʇso1 pɐɥ ǝɥs .ʇuǝɯɐuɹnoʇ ɟ1ob ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ

    ”.uıʍ ʇ’upıp noʎ ʎɹɹos“ .ɹǝɥʇǝboʇ pǝıɹɔ ʎǝɥʇ ”¡o11ǝɥ“

    .sdǝʇs ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇooɟ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ pǝddoʇs oɥʍ 'sǝssǝɹp ʍo11ǝʎ uıʍʇ uı s1ɹıb oʍʇ oʇ ɹɐǝ ǝʌɐb puɐ 'ǝʇnuıɯ ɐ uı ǝɯ ɟo ǝɹɐɔ ǝʞɐʇ p’ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ ǝsıɯoɹd ɐ sɐ 'ʎ11ɐuosɹǝdɯı puɐɥ ʎɯ p1ǝɥ ǝɥs ”——oʇ ɹoop ʇxǝu pǝʌı1 noʎ pǝɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ı“ .dn ǝɯɐɔ ı sɐ ʎ1ʇuǝsqɐ pǝpuodsǝɹ ǝɥs ”'ǝɹǝɥ ǝq ʇɥbıɯ noʎ ʇɥbnoɥʇ ı“

    .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ssoɹɔɐ pno1 ʎ11ɐɹnʇɐuun pǝɯǝǝs ǝɔıoʌ ʎɯ .ɹǝɥ pɹɐʍoʇ buıɔuɐʌpɐ 'pǝɹɐoɹ ı ”¡o11ǝɥ“

    .ʎq-sɹǝssɐd ǝɥʇ oʇ sʞɹɐɯǝɹ 1ɐıpɹoɔ ssǝɹppɐ oʇ uıbǝq p1noɥs ı ǝɹoɟǝq ǝuo ǝɯos oʇ ɟ1ǝsʎɯ ɥɔɐʇʇɐ oʇ ʎɹɐssǝɔǝu ʇı punoɟ ı 'ʇou ɹo ǝɯoɔ1ǝʍ

    .uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ oʇuı uʍop ʇsǝɹǝʇuı snonʇdɯǝʇuoɔ ɥʇıʍ buıʞoo1 puɐ pɹɐʍʞɔɐq ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ buıuɐǝ1 'sdǝʇs ǝ1qɹɐɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo pɐǝɥ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ pooʇs puɐ ǝsnoɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇno ǝɯɐɔ ɹǝʞɐq uɐpɹoظ uǝɥʍ ʇuǝɯssɐɹɹɐqɯǝ ɹǝǝɥs ɯoɹɟ ʞunɹp buıɹɐoɹ ʇǝb oʇ ʎɐʍ ʎɯ uo sɐʍ ı

    .ǝuo1ɐ puɐ ssǝ1ǝsodɹnd buıʞoo1 ʇnoɥʇıʍ ɹǝbuı1 p1noɔ uɐɯ ǝ1buıs ɐ ǝɹǝɥʍ uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔɐ1d ʎ1uo ǝɥʇ—ǝ1qɐʇ 1ıɐʇʞɔoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝɹıp ǝɥʇ uı ɟɟo ʞun1s ı ʇɐɥʇ 'sʇuǝɯǝʌoɯ sıɥ ɟo ǝbpǝ1ʍouʞ ʎuɐ ʎ1ʇuǝɯǝɥǝʌ os pǝıuǝp puɐ 'ʎɐʍ pǝzɐɯɐ uɐ ɥɔns uı ǝɯ ʇɐ pǝɹɐʇs sʇnoqɐǝɹǝɥʍ sıɥ pǝʞsɐ ı ɯoɥʍ ɟo ǝ1doǝd ǝǝɹɥʇ ɹo oʍʇ ǝɥʇ ʇnq 'ʇsoɥ ʎɯ puıɟ oʇ ʇdɯǝʇʇɐ uɐ ǝpɐɯ ı pǝʌıɹɹɐ ı sɐ uoos sɐ

    .ʎǝʞ ʇɥbıɹ ǝɥʇ uı spɹoʍ ʍǝɟ ɐ ɹoɟ sɹıǝɥʇ sɐʍ ʇı ʇɐɥʇ pǝɔuıʌuoɔ puɐ ʎʇıuıɔıʌ ǝɥʇ uı ʎǝuoɯ ʎsɐǝ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɹɐʍɐ ʎ1buızıuobɐ ʇsɐǝ1 ʇɐ ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ .sǝ1ıqoɯoʇnɐ ɹo ǝɔuɐɹnsuı ɹo spuoq :buıɥʇǝɯos buı11ǝs ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɹns sɐʍ ı .suɐɔıɹǝɯɐ snoɹǝdsoɹd puɐ pı1os oʇ sǝɔıoʌ ʇsǝuɹɐǝ 'ʍo1 uı buıʞ1ɐʇ 11ɐ puɐ 'ʎɹbunɥ ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ buıʞoo1 11ɐ 'pǝssǝɹp 11ǝʍ 11ɐ ;ʇnoqɐ pǝʇʇop uǝɯɥsı1buǝ bunoʎ ɟo ɹǝqɯnu ǝɥʇ ʎq ʞɔnɹʇs ʎ1ǝʇɐıpǝɯɯı sɐʍ ı .uıɐɹʇ buıʇnɯɯoɔ ǝɥʇ uo pǝɔıʇou pɐɥ ı ǝɔɐɟ ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ puɐ ǝɹǝɥ ɥbnoɥʇ—ʍouʞ ʇ’upıp ı ǝ1doǝd ɟo sǝıppǝ puɐ s1ɹıʍs buoɯɐ ǝsɐǝ ʇɐ 11ı ɹǝɥʇɐɹ punoɹɐ pǝɹǝpuɐʍ puɐ 'uǝʌǝs ɹǝʇɟɐ ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ uʍɐ1 sıɥ oʇ ɹǝʌo ʇuǝʍ ı s1ǝuuɐ1ɟ ǝʇıɥʍ uı dn pǝssǝɹp

    .puɐɥ ɔıʇsǝظɐɯ ɐ uı 'ʎqsʇɐb ʎɐظ pǝubıs—ʇı pǝʇuǝʌǝɹd pɐɥ sǝɔuɐʇsɯnɔɹıɔ ɟo uoıʇɐuıqɯoɔ ɹɐı1nɔǝd ɐ ʇnq 'ǝɹoɟǝq buo1 ǝɯ uo 11ɐɔ oʇ pǝpuǝʇuı pɐɥ puɐ 'sǝɯıʇ 1ɐɹǝʌǝs ǝɯ uǝǝs pɐɥ ǝɥ .ʇɥbıu ʇɐɥʇ ”.ʎʇɹɐd ǝ1ʇʇı1“ sıɥ puǝʇʇɐ p1noʍ ı ɟı 'pıɐs ʇı 's’ʎqsʇɐb ʎ1ǝɹıʇuǝ ǝq p1noʍ ɹouoɥ ǝɥʇ :ɹǝʎo1dɯǝ sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ǝʇou 1ɐɯɹoɟ ʎ1buısıɹdɹns ɐ ɥʇıʍ buıuɹoɯ ʎɐpɹnʇɐs ʇɐɥʇ ʎ1ɹɐǝ uʍɐ1 ʎɯ pǝssoɹɔ ǝn1q bbǝ-s’uıqoɹ ɟo ɯɹoɟıun ɐ uı ɹnǝɟɟnɐɥɔ ɐ .pǝʇıʌuı ʎ11ɐnʇɔɐ uǝǝq pɐɥ ı

    .uoıssıɯpɐ ɟo ʇǝʞɔıʇ uʍo sʇı sɐʍ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɹɐǝɥ ɟo ʎʇıɔı1dɯıs ɐ ɥʇıʍ ʎʇɹɐd ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ǝɯɐɔ '11ɐ ʇɐ ʎqsʇɐb ʇǝɯ buıʌɐɥ ʇnoɥʇıʍ ʇuǝʍ puɐ ǝɯɐɔ ʎǝɥʇ sǝɯıʇǝɯos .sʞɹɐd ʇuǝɯǝsnɯɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇɐıɔossɐ ɹoıʌɐɥǝq ɟo sǝ1nɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ buıpɹoɔɔɐ sǝʌ1ǝsɯǝɥʇ pǝʇɔnpuoɔ ʎǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝʇɟɐ puɐ 'ʎqsʇɐb ʍǝuʞ oɥʍ ʎpoqǝɯos ʎq pǝɔnpoɹʇuı ǝɹǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʇ ǝɔuo .ɹoop s’ʎqsʇɐb ʇɐ dn pǝpuǝ ʎǝɥʇ ʍoɥǝɯos puɐ 'puɐ1sı buo1 oʇ ʇno ɯǝɥʇ ǝɹoq ɥɔıɥʍ sǝ1ıqoɯoʇnɐ oʇuı ʇob ʎǝɥʇ .ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇuǝʍ ʎǝɥʇ—pǝʇıʌuı ʇou ǝɹǝʍ ǝ1doǝd .pǝʇıʌuı uǝǝq ʎ11ɐnʇɔɐ pɐɥ oɥʍ sʇsǝnb ʍǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo sɐʍ ı ǝsnoɥ s’ʎqsʇɐb oʇ ʇuǝʍ ı ʇɥbıu ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ uo ʇɐɥʇ ǝʌǝı1ǝq ı

    .unbǝq sɐɥ ʎʇɹɐd ǝɥʇ .sǝı11oɟ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎpnʇsɹǝpun s’ʎɐɹb ɐp1ıb sı ǝɥs ʇɐɥʇ punoɹɐ sǝob sʍǝu snoǝuoɹɹǝ ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹǝʇʇɐɥɔ ɟo ʇsɹnq ɐ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ puɐ 'ɹǝɥ ɹoɟ ʎ1buıbı1qo ɯɥʇʎɥɹ sıɥ sǝıɹɐʌ ɹǝpɐǝ1 ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ ;ɥsnɥ ʎɹɐʇuǝɯoɯ ɐ .ɯɹoɟʇɐ1d sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ǝuo1ɐ ʇno sǝɔuɐp 'oɔsıɹɟ ǝʞı1 spuɐɥ ɹǝɥ buıʌoɯ 'puɐ ǝbɐɹnoɔ ɹoɟ uʍop ʇı sdɯnp 'ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇno 1ıɐʇʞɔoɔ ɐ sǝzıǝs '1ɐdo buı1qɯǝɹʇ uı 'sǝısdʎb ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ʎ1uǝppns

    .ʇɥbı1 buıbuɐɥɔ ʎ1ʇuɐʇsuoɔ ǝɥʇ ɹǝpun ɹo1oɔ puɐ sǝɔıoʌ puɐ sǝɔɐɟ ɟo ǝbuɐɥɔ-ɐǝs ǝɥʇ ɥbnoɹɥʇ uo ǝpı1b 'ɥdɯnıɹʇ ɥʇıʍ pǝʇıɔxǝ 'uǝɥʇ puɐ 'dnoɹb ɐ ɟo ǝɹʇuǝɔ ǝɥʇ ʇuǝɯoɯ snoʎoظ 'dɹɐɥs ɐ ɹoɟ ǝɯoɔǝq 'ǝ1qɐʇs ǝɹoɯ puɐ ɹǝʇnoʇs ǝɥʇ buoɯɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ puɐ ǝɹǝɥ ǝʌɐǝʍ oɥʍ s1ɹıb ʇuǝpıɟuoɔ 'sɹǝɹǝpuɐʍ ǝɹɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ ʎpɐǝɹ1ɐ ;ɥʇɐǝɹq ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ uı ɯɹoɟ puɐ ǝʌ1ossıp 's1ɐʌıɹɹɐ ʍǝu ɥʇıʍ 11ǝʍs 'ʎ1ʇɟıʍs ǝɹoɯ ǝbuɐɥɔ sdnoɹb ǝɥʇ .pɹoʍ 1nɟɹǝǝɥɔ ɐ ʇɐ ʇno pǝddıʇ 'ʎʇı1ɐbıpoɹd ɥʇıʍ pǝ11ıds 'ǝʇnuıɯ ʎq ǝʇnuıɯ ɹǝısɐǝ sı ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 .ɹǝɥbıɥ ʎǝʞ ɐ sǝɥɔʇıd sǝɔıoʌ ɟo ɐɹǝdo ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ɔısnɯ 1ıɐʇʞɔoɔ ʍo11ǝʎ buıʎɐ1d sı ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ ʍou puɐ 'uns ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎɐʍɐ sǝɥɔɹn1 ɥʇɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹǝʇɥbıɹq ʍoɹb sʇɥbı1 ǝɥʇ

    .sǝɯɐu s’ɹǝɥʇo ɥɔɐǝ ʍǝuʞ ɹǝʌǝu oɥʍ uǝɯoʍ uǝǝʍʇǝq sbuıʇǝǝɯ ɔıʇsɐısnɥʇuǝ puɐ 'ʇods ǝɥʇ uo uǝʇʇobɹoɟ suoıʇɔnpoɹʇuı puɐ opuǝnuuı 1ɐnsɐɔ puɐ 'ɹǝʇɥbnɐ1 puɐ ɹǝʇʇɐɥɔ ɥʇıʍ ǝʌı1ɐ sı ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ 1ıʇun 'ǝpısʇno uǝpɹɐb ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐǝɯɹǝd s1ıɐʇʞɔoɔ ɟo spunoɹ buıʇɐo1ɟ puɐ 'buıʍs 11nɟ uı sı ɹɐq ǝɥʇ .ǝ1ıʇsɐɔ ɟo sɯɐǝɹp ǝɥʇ puoʎǝq s1ʍɐɥs puɐ 'sʎɐʍ ʍǝu ǝbuɐɹʇs uı uɹoɥs ɹıɐɥ puɐ 'sɹo1oɔ ʎɹɐɯıɹd ɥʇıʍ ʎpnɐb ǝɹɐ sɐpuɐɹǝʌ puɐ suo1ɐs puɐ s11ɐɥ ǝɥʇ ʎpɐǝɹ1ɐ puɐ 'ǝʌıɹp ǝɥʇ uı dǝǝp ǝʌıɟ pǝʞɹɐd ǝɹɐ ʞɹoʎ ʍǝu ɯoɹɟ sɹɐɔ ǝɥʇ ;sɹıɐʇs-dn buıssǝɹp ǝɹɐ puɐ ʍou ɥɔɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ uı ǝɯoɔ ǝʌɐɥ sɹǝɯɯıʍs ʇsɐ1 ǝɥʇ .sɯnɹp ɥbıɥ puɐ ʍo1 puɐ 'so1oɔɔıd puɐ sʇǝuɹoɔ puɐ s1oıʌ puɐ sǝuoɥdoxɐs puɐ sǝuoqɯoɹʇ puɐ sǝoqo ɟo 1nɟʇıd ǝ1oɥʍ ɐ ʇnq 'ɹıɐɟɟɐ ǝɔǝıd-ǝʌıɟ uıɥʇ ou 'pǝʌıɹɹɐ sɐɥ ɐɹʇsǝɥɔɹo ǝɥʇ ʞɔo1ɔ’o uǝʌǝs ʎq

    .ɹǝɥʇouɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝuo ʍouʞ oʇ bunoʎ ooʇ ǝɹǝʍ sʇsǝnb ǝ1ɐɯǝɟ sıɥ ɟo ʇsoɯ ʇɐɥʇ uǝʇʇobɹoɟ buo1 os s1ɐıpɹoɔ ɥʇıʍ puɐ sɹonbı1 puɐ suıb ɥʇıʍ pǝʞɔoʇs puɐ 'dn ʇǝs sɐʍ 1ıɐɹ ssɐɹq 1ɐǝɹ ɐ ɥʇıʍ ɹɐq ɐ 11ɐɥ uıɐɯ ǝɥʇ uı .p1ob ʞɹɐp ɐ oʇ pǝɥɔʇıʍǝq sʎǝʞɹnʇ puɐ sbıd ʎɹʇsɐd puɐ subısǝp uınbǝ1ɹɐɥ ɟo spɐ1ɐs ʇsuıɐbɐ pǝpʍoɹɔ sɯɐɥ pǝʞɐq pǝɔıds 'ǝɹʌnǝo’p-sɹoɥ buıuǝʇsı1b ɥʇıʍ pǝɥsıuɹɐb 'sǝ1qɐʇ ʇǝɟɟnq uo .uǝpɹɐb snoɯɹouǝ s’ʎqsʇɐb ɟo ǝǝɹʇ sɐɯʇsıɹɥɔ ɐ ǝʞɐɯ oʇ sʇɥbı1 pǝɹo1oɔ ɥbnouǝ puɐ sɐʌuɐɔ ɟo ʇǝǝɟ pǝɹpunɥ 1ɐɹǝʌǝs ɥʇıʍ uʍop ǝɯɐɔ sɹǝɹǝʇɐɔ ɟo sdɹoɔ ɐ ʇɥbıuʇɹoɟ ɐ ǝɔuo ʇsɐǝ1 ʇɐ

    .qɯnɥʇ s’ɹǝ1ʇnq ɐ ʎq sǝɯıʇ pǝɹpunɥ oʍʇ pǝssǝɹd sɐʍ uoʇʇnq ǝ1ʇʇı1 ɐ ɟı ɹnoɥ uɐ ɟ1ɐɥ uı sǝbuɐɹo pǝɹpunɥ oʍʇ ɟo ǝɔınظ ǝɥʇ ʇɔɐɹʇxǝ p1noɔ ɥɔıɥʍ uǝɥɔʇıʞ ǝɥʇ uı ǝuıɥɔɐɯ ɐ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ .sǝʌ1ɐɥ ssǝ1d1nd ɟo pıɯɐɹʎd ɐ uı ɹoop ʞɔɐq sıɥ ʇɟǝ1 suoɯǝ1 puɐ sǝbuɐɹo ǝɯɐs ǝsǝɥʇ ʎɐpuoɯ ʎɹǝʌǝ—ʞɹoʎ ʍǝu uı ɹǝɹǝʇınɹɟ ɐ ɯoɹɟ pǝʌıɹɹɐ suoɯǝ1 puɐ sǝbuɐɹo ɟo sǝʇɐɹɔ ǝʌıɟ ʎɐpıɹɟ ʎɹǝʌǝ

    .ǝɹoɟǝq ʇɥbıu ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝbɐʌɐɹ ǝɥʇ buıɹıɐdǝɹ 'sɹɐǝɥs-uǝpɹɐb puɐ sɹǝɯɯɐɥ puɐ sǝɥsnɹq-buıqqnɹɔs puɐ sdoɯ ɥʇıʍ ʎɐp 11ɐ pǝ1ıoʇ 'ɹǝuǝpɹɐb ɐɹʇxǝ uɐ buıpn1ɔuı 'sʇuɐʌɹǝs ʇɥbıǝ sʎɐpuoɯ uo puɐ .suıɐɹʇ 11ɐ ʇǝǝɯ oʇ bnq ʍo11ǝʎ ʞsıɹq ɐ ǝʞı1 pǝɹǝdɯɐɔs uobɐʍ uoıʇɐʇs sıɥ ǝ1ıɥʍ 'ʇɥbıupıɯ ʇsɐd buo1 puɐ buıuɹoɯ ǝɥʇ uı ǝuıu uǝǝʍʇǝq ʎʇıɔ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ puɐ oʇ sǝıʇɹɐd buıɹɐǝq 'snqıuɯo uɐ ǝɯɐɔǝq ǝɔʎoɹ-s11oɹ sıɥ spuǝ-ʞǝǝʍ uo .ɯɐoɟ ɟo sʇɔɐɹɐʇɐɔ ɹǝʌo sǝuɐ1dɐnbɐ buıʍɐɹp 'punos ǝɥʇ ɟo sɹǝʇɐʍ ǝɥʇ ʇı1s sʇɐoq-ɹoʇoɯ oʍʇ sıɥ ǝ1ıɥʍ ɥɔɐǝq sıɥ ɟo puɐs ʇoɥ ǝɥʇ uo uns ǝɥʇ buıʞɐʇ ɹo 'ʇɟɐɹ sıɥ ɟo ɹǝʍoʇ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ buıʌıp sʇsǝnb sıɥ pǝɥɔʇɐʍ ı uoouɹǝʇɟɐ ǝɥʇ uı ǝpıʇ ɥbıɥ ʇɐ .sɹɐʇs ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝubɐdɯɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ puɐ sbuıɹǝdsıɥʍ ǝɥʇ buoɯɐ sɥʇoɯ ǝʞı1 ʇuǝʍ puɐ ǝɯɐɔ s1ɹıb puɐ uǝɯ suǝpɹɐb ǝn1q sıɥ uı .sʇɥbıu ɹǝɯɯns ǝɥʇ ɥbnoɹɥʇ ǝsnoɥ s’ɹoqɥbıǝu ʎɯ ɯoɹɟ ɔısnɯ sɐʍ ǝɹǝɥʇ

    3 ɹǝʇdɐɥɔ
  4. btwyhad Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    we are not your friend bish, we are not your friend,
    join me now,
    We are not your friend bitch, we are not your friend
    Music intro
    We are not your friend bish we are not your friend
    Give me a beat
    We are not your friend bitch we are not your friend.


    I dedicate this jam to herro
  5. Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    View attachment 3316_cbb6.jpeg

    You could have done the whole fucking thing.....

    Leave the green light on upstaars next time...
  6. Ogsonofgroo Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Hard...to...look...away.

    trainwreck1.png



    :D
  7. YAHRLY Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    STFU

    tinyCancer
  8. da5id Administrator

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Funny how adding that one sentence at the end allows you to think you are doing something differently than the OP.
  9. Snake Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Greatest upstairs post ever. Amirite?
  10. YAHRLY Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

    that would be the Epic Swords Guy thread
  11. Snake Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Oh yes. How could I forget that legendary one.
  12. Herro Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Overwhelming irony.

    Uh, thanks?
  13. JMBrandon Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    I think this thread should be called;
    "What isn't wrong with you, folks?"
    XD

    love how this thread turned out, I needed a good laugh~
  14. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    In b4 dome
  15. anmoyunos Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    What makes you think I'll stop just because of that? I'm sure it was obvious enough even when I did hit that box.

    Now, in our native tongue...

    [font="Roman"]Kapitel 4

    Am Sonntag Morgen, während Kirchenglocken rang in den Dörfern alongshore, die Welt und ihre Herrin wieder Gatsby-Haus und twinkled komische auf seinem Rasen.

    "Er ist ein Bootlegger", sagte der junge Damen, Verschieben irgendwo zwischen Cocktails und seine Blumen. "Eines Tages tötete er einen Mann, der hatte herausgefunden, dass er zu Neffe von Hindenburg und zweiten Cousin der Teufel. Bei mir eine Rose, Honig, und für mich eine letzte Tropfen, dass es in Kristallglas. "

    Wenn ich auf die leeren Räume der Zeit-Tabelle die Namen derjenigen, die zu Gatsby, dass das Haus im Sommer. Es ist eine alte Zeit-Tabelle nun, Zerfall in seiner Falten, und der Überschrift "Dieser Zeitplan in Kraft, 5. Juli 1922." Aber ich kann noch lesen Sie die grauen Namen, und sie geben Ihnen einen besseren Eindruck als meine Allgemeines zu denen, die akzeptiert Gatsby Gastfreundschaft und ihm die subtile Hommage wissen nichts über ihn.

    Von Osten Ei, dann kam die Chester Beckers und die Blutegel, und ein Mann namens Bunsen, denen ich wusste, dass an der Yale, und Doktor civet Webster, der im letzten Sommer ertranken in Maine. Und die Hainbuchen und Willie Voltaire, und eine ganze Clan namens Blackbuck, wer immer sich in eine Ecke und umgekehrt ihre Nasen wie Ziegen an, wer in der Nähe kam. Und die Ismays und die Chrysties (oder eher Hubert Auerbach und Herr Chrystie Frau), und Edgar Beaver, deren Haar, so sagen sie, sich Baumwolle-weiße Winter Nachmittag für keinen guten Grund haben.

    Clarence Endivie wurde aus Ost-Ei, wie ich mich erinnere. Er kam nur einmal, in weiß Knickerbocker, und hatte einen Kampf mit einem Kerl namens ETTY im Garten. Von weiter draußen auf der Insel kam der Cheadles und die ORP Schraeders, und die Stonewall Jackson Abrams von Georgien und den Fishguards und Ripley Snells. Snell war es drei Tage, bevor er ging zu dem Gefängnis, so betrunken auf der Kies-Laufwerk, dass Frau Ulysses Swett der Automobil lief über seiner rechten Hand. Die Dancies kam, zu, und SB Whitebait, der weit über sechzig, und Maurice A. Flink, und die Hammerhaie und Beluga Tabak Importeur, der Beluga und Mädchen.

    Von West Egg kamen die Polen und die Mulreadys Roebuck und Cecil und Cecil Schoen und Gulick der Staat Senator und Newton Orchid, die kontrollierten Filme par excellence, und Eckhaust und Clyde Cohen und Don S. Schwartze (Sohn) und Arthur McCarty, alle angeschlossenen mit, die Filme in der einen oder anderen Weise. Und die Catlips und die Bembergs und G. Earl Muldoon, Bruder, dass Muldoon, die später seine Frau stranguliert. Da Fontano der Projektträger kam es, und Ed Legros und James B. ( "Rot-Gut.") Ferret und die De Jongs und Ernest-Lilly kamen sie zu spielen, und wenn Ferret wanderte in den Garten bedeutete er gereinigt und Beteiligt Traction hätte schwanken profitabel am nächsten Tag.

    Ein Mann namens Klipspringer war es so oft und so lang, daß er bekannt als "die Grenze." Ich bezweifle, ob er alle anderen zu Hause. Von Theater-Leute dort waren Gus Waize und Horace O'donavan und Lester Meyer und George Duckweed und Francis Bull.. Auch aus New York waren die Chromes und die Backhyssons und die Dennickers und Russel Betty und die Corrigans und die Kellehers und die Dewars und die Scullys und SW Belcher und die Smirkes und der junge Quinns, geschieden, und Henry L. Palmetto, die getötet sich durch einen Sprung vor eine U-Bahn in Times Square.

    Benny McClenahan kamen immer mit vier Mädchen. Sie waren nie in der gleichen physischen Person, aber sie waren so identisch mit einem anderen, dass es zwangsläufig schien sie war es vor. Ich habe ihren Namen-Jaqueline, glaube ich, oder sonst Consuela, oder Gloria oder Judy oder Juni, und die letzten Namen waren entweder die melodischen Namen der Blumen und Monate oder die strenger als die der großen amerikanischen Kapitalisten, deren Cousins, wenn gedrückt, sie bekennen sich zu sein.

    Neben all diesen Ich kann mich erinnern, dass Faustina O'brien kam es mindestens einmal und der Baedeker Mädchen und junge Brewer, der seine Nase Schuss aus in den Krieg, und Herr und Frau Albrucksburger Haag, seiner Verlobten, und Ardita Fitz -Peters und Herr P. Jewett, einst Leiter der American Legion, und Frau Claudia Hip, mit einem Mann im Ruf, ihr Chauffeur und ein Prinz von etwas, die wir genannt Duke, und deren Namen, wenn ich immer wusste, dass es , habe ich vergessen.

    Alle diese Menschen kamen, um Gatsby Haus im Sommer.

    Um neun Uhr, ein Vormittag Ende Juli, Gatsby's wunderschöne Auto lurched die Rocky-Laufwerk zu meiner Tür und gab ein Platzen der Melodie von seinen drei festgestellt, Horn. Es war das erste Mal, er hatte auf mich, wenn ich gegangen war, um zwei seiner Parteien, die in seinem Wasserflugzeug, und auf seine dringende Aufforderung, die häufige Verwendung von seinem Strand.

    "Guten Morgen, alte Sport. Sie haben mit mir zu Mittag-Tag und ich dachte, wir fahren zusammen. "

    Er war selbst Ausgleich auf dem Armaturenbrett seines Autos mit dem Einfallsreichtum der Bewegung, ist so eigenartig, dass die US-amerikanischen kommt, nehme ich an, mit dem Fehlen der Aufhebung der Arbeit oder starre Sitzung in der Jugendarbeit und, mehr noch, mit der formlosen Gnade unseres nervös , sporadisch Spiele. Diese Qualität wurde ständig durch seine bahnbrechende punctilious Art und Weise, in der Form der Unruhe. Er war nie ganz still, es war immer ein Fuß irgendwo tippen oder die ungeduldig Öffnen und Schließen der Hand.

    Er sah mich freuen mit Bewunderung an seinem Auto.

    "Es ist schön, nicht wahr, alte Sport?" Er sprang aus, um mir ein besseres Bild. "Haben Sie jemals gesehen, wie er vor?"

    Ich hätte es gesehen. Jeder hat es gesehen. Es war eine reichhaltige Creme Farbe, hell, mit Nickel-, geschwollene hier und da in seiner monströsen Länge Siegeszug mit Hut-Boxen und Abendessen-Kisten und Werkzeug-Boxen, und Terrassen mit einem Labyrinth von Wind-Schild, dass ein Dutzend Sonnen gespiegelt. Sitzung hinter vielen Schichten von Glas in einer Art von grünem Leder Konservatorium, begannen wir in die Stadt.

    Ich hatte mit ihm gesprochen, vielleicht ein halbes Dutzend mal im letzten Monat und gefunden, um meine Enttäuschung, dass er wenig zu sagen: Also mein erster Eindruck, dass er eine Person irgendein Folge hatte allmählich verblasst, und er hatte sich nur der Inhaber einer aufwändigen Weg-Haus nebenan.

    Und dann kam, dass befremdliche Fahrt. Wir hatten nicht erreicht West Egg Dorf vor Gatsby begann Ende seiner eleganten Sätze unvollendet und Slapping sich unschlüssig auf dem Knie seines karamell-farbig Farbe.

    "Schau mal hier, alte Sport", er brach überraschend. "Was ist Ihre Meinung von mir, wie Sie möchten?" Ein bisschen überwältigt, begann ich die allgemeine Evasions, die diese Frage verdient.

    "Nun, ich werde Ihnen etwas über mein Leben", sagt er unterbrochen. "Ich möchte nicht, dass Sie, um eine falsche Vorstellung von mir aus all diesen Geschichten hören."

    So war er von der bizarren Vorwürfe, dass die bezogene Gespräch in seiner Hallen.

    "Ich werde Ihnen sagen, Gott ist Wahrheit." Seine rechte Hand plötzlich bestellt göttlichen Vergeltung zu stehen. "Ich bin der Sohn von einigen reichen Menschen im Mittleren Westen alle tot jetzt. Ich wuchs in Amerika, sondern studierte in Oxford, denn alle meine Vorfahren wurden ausgebildet für viele Jahre. Es ist eine Tradition der Familie. "

    Er schaute mich-Seite und ich wusste, warum Jordanien Baker hatte geglaubt, er lag. Er eilte dem Satz "studierte in Oxford," oder geschluckt, oder würgte sie so, als ob sie hatte Mühe, ihn vor. Und mit diesem Zweifel, sein ganzes Erklärung fiel in Stücke, und ich fragte mich, ob es nicht etwas düsteren über ihn, nachdem alle.

    "Welchen Teil des Nahen und Mittleren Westen?" Fragte ich beiläufig.

    "San Francisco".

    "Ich verstehe."

    "Meine Familie alle gestorben, und ich kam in einen sehr viel Geld."

    Seine Stimme war feierlich, als ob die Erinnerung an die plötzlichen Aussterben eines Clans noch verfolgte ihn. Für einen Moment, ich vermutete, dass er zieht mein Bein, aber einen Blick auf ihn überzeugt mich.

    "Danach habe ich gelebt wie ein junger Radscha in allen Hauptstädten der Europa-Paris, Venedig, Rom-Sammlung von Schmuck, vor allem Rubine, Jagd Big Game, Malerei ein wenig, was für mich nur, und versuchen zu vergessen, etwas sehr traurig war, dass ist mir schon vor langer Zeit. "

    Mit einem Aufwand ist mir gelungen, meine beschränken ungläubig gelacht. Die Sätze wurden getragen, so fadenscheinig, dass sie vermutet, dass kein Bild mit Ausnahme eines Turban "-Zeichen." Undicht Sägemehl in jeder Pore, wie er verfolgt ein Tiger durch den Bois de Boulogne.

    "Dann kam der Krieg, alte Sport. Es war eine große Erleichterung, und ich versucht, sehr schwer zu sterben, aber ich schien mit einer verzauberten Leben. Ich nahm eine Provision als Oberleutnant, wenn sie begonnen hat. In der Argonne Forest Ich habe zwei Maschinengewehr Detachemente so weit, dass es eine halbe Meile Abstand auf beiden Seiten von uns, wenn die Infanterie nicht voraus. Wir haben dort zwei Tage und zwei Nächte, hundert und dreißig Männer mit sechzehn Lewis Waffen, und wenn die Infanterie kam endlich fanden sie die Insignien von drei deutschen Divisionen unter den Stapel der Toten. Ich wurde zu einem großen, und jeden alliierten Regierung gab mir eine Dekoration, auch Montenegro, wenig nach Montenegro an der Adria! "

    Little Montenegro! Er hob die Worte auf und nickte ihnen mit seinem Lächeln. Das Lächeln verstanden Montenegro die bewegte Geschichte und sympathisierte mit den mutigen Kampf der montenegrinischen Bevölkerung. Sie schätzen voll der Kette der nationalen Gegebenheiten, die diese Ehrung rief aus Montenegro warm kleines Herz. Meine Ungläubigkeit war eingetaucht in die Faszination, es war wie skimming hastig durch ein Dutzend Zeitschriften.

    Er erreichte in der Tasche, und ein Stück Metall, geschleudert auf ein Band, fiel in meine Handfläche.

    "Das ist einerseits aus Montenegro."

    Zu meinem Erstaunen, das Ding hatte einen authentischen Look.

    "Orderi Danilo di", lief das Rundschreiben Legende ", Montenegro, Nicolas Rex".

    "Schalten Sie ihn."

    "Major Jay Gatsby," Ich habe gelesen, "Für Valour außergewöhnlich."

    "Hier ist eine andere Sache, die ich immer. Ein Souvenir von Oxford Tage. Es wurde im Trinity Quad-der Mann auf meinem linken Seite ist jetzt der Earl of Dorcaster. "

    Es war ein Foto von einem halben Dutzend junger Männer in Blazer Faulenzerei in einem Bogen durch die sichtbar eine Reihe von Türmen. Es wurde Gatsby, ein bißchen, nicht viel, jüngere mit einem Cricket-Schläger in der Hand.

    Dann war alles wahr. Ich sah die Felle von Tigern Flammen in seinem Palast am Canal Grande, ich sah ihn zur Eröffnung einer Brust von Rubinen zu erleichtern, mit ihren beleuchteten crimson-Tiefen, die gnawings sein gebrochenes Herz.

    "Ich werde eine große Bitte an Sie zu Tag", sagte er, seine Taschen-Souvenirs mit Genugtuung, "so dass ich dachte, Sie sollten wissen, etwas über mich. Ich habe nicht wollen, dass Sie denken, ich war nur einige niemand. Sie sehen, ich befinde mich in der Regel unter den Fremden, weil ich hier und da Drift versucht zu vergessen, die traurige Sache, dass mir passiert ist. "Er zögerte. "Sie hören heute Nachmittag."

    "Zum Mittagessen?"

    "Nein, heute Nachmittag. Ich war zu erfahren, dass Sie die Miss Baker zum Tee. "

    "Meinen Sie damit Sie sich in der Liebe mit Miss Baker?"

    "Nein, das alte Sport, bin ich nicht. Aber Miss Baker hat freundlicherweise ihre Zustimmung zu Ihnen zu sprechen über dieses Thema. "

    Ich hatte nicht die leiseste Ahnung, was "dieser Angelegenheit." War, aber ich war mehr als verärgert interessiert. Ich hatte nicht gefragt, Jordanien zum Tee, um zu erörtern, Herr Jay Gatsby. Ich war mir sicher, der Antrag wäre etwas völlig fantastisch, und für einen Moment war ich bedauere ich jemals einen Fuß auf seinen überbevölkerten Rasen.

    Er würde nicht sagen, dass ein anderes Wort. Seine Richtigkeit stieg auf ihn, als wir hinter der Stadt. Wir haben Port Roosevelt, wo es einen Einblick in rot-Belted Hochsee-Schiffen, und beschleunigt auf einer gepflasterten Slum mit den dunklen, undeserted Salons der schwach-Jungsau neunzehn-hundert. Dann wird das Tal der Asche eröffnet auf beiden Seiten von uns, und ich hatte einen Blick auf Frau Wilson Belastung in der Garage Pumpe mit Keuchen Vitalität, wie wir gingen durch.

    Mit Kotflügel verbreitete sich wie ein Flügel wir Streulicht durch die halbe Long Island City-nur die Hälfte, als wir unter den verdrehten Säulen der erhöhten Ich habe gehört, das vertraute "jug-jug-spät!" Von einem Motorrad, und ein Polizist fuhr mit Frantic.

    "All right, alte Sport" genannt Gatsby. Wir verlangsamt. Eine weiße Karte aus seiner Brieftasche, winkte er es vor dem Menschen die Augen.

    "Recht, das Sie sind", stimmte der Polizist, Kipp-Mütze. "Wissen, dass Sie beim nächsten Mal, Herr Gatsby. Excuse Me! "

    "Was war das?" Fragte ich.

    "Das Bild von Oxford?"

    "Ich war in der Lage zu tun, der Kommissar einen Gefallen einmal, und er schickt mir eine Weihnachtskarte jedes Jahr."

    Über die große Brücke, die das Sonnenlicht durch die Träger eine ständige Flimmern auf dem bewegten Autos, mit der Stadt steigt bis über den Fluss in weiß Halden und Zuckerwürfel alle, die mit dem Wunsch aus der nicht-olfaktorischen Geld. Die Stadt aus der Sicht der Queensboro-Brücke ist immer die Stadt sich zum ersten Mal in seiner ersten wilden Versprechen von allen das Geheimnis und die Schönheit der Welt.

    Ein toter Mann an uns in einem Leichenwagen gehäuft mit Blüten, gefolgt von zwei Wagen, die mit Jalousien und mehr fröhliche Wagen für Freunde. Die Freunde sahen sich bei uns mit den tragischen Augen und kurze Oberlippen der Südost-Europa, und ich war froh, dass der Anblick der herrlichen Gatsby Auto war in ihren düsteren Urlaub. Da wir über Blackwell's Island eine Limousine an uns, von einem weißen Chauffeur, in denen Samstag drei modischen Neger, zwei Böcke und ein Mädchen. Ich lachte laut, als die Eigelb ihrer Augen rollte auf uns stolz Rivalität.

    "Alles kann passieren, dass wir jetzt haben, rutschte über diese Brücke," Ich dachte, "alles in allen. . . ".

    Selbst Gatsby geschehen könnte, ohne besondere Wunder.

    Roaring Uhr. In einer gut-fanned Vierzig-Sekunden-Keller-Straße traf ich Gatsby für das Mittagessen. Blinkt entfernt die Helligkeit von der Straße, meine Augen wieder ihn dunkel in den Vorraum, im Gespräch mit einem anderen Menschen.

    "Herr Carraway, dies ist mein Freund Herr Wolfsheim ".

    Eine kleine, flache Nase, die Juden seiner großen Kopf und betrachtet mich mit zwei feinen Wachstum der Haare, die entweder in luxuriated Nasenloch. Nach einem Moment entdeckte ich seine winzigen Augen in der Hälfte der Dunkelheit.

    "So habe ich einen Blick auf ihn", sagte Herr Wolfsheim, schüttelt mir die Hand ernst, "und was glauben Sie, ich habe?"

    "Was?" Ich fragte höflich.

    Aber offensichtlich war er nicht an mir, denn er ging mir die Hand und unter Gatsby mit seinem expressiven Nase.

    "Ich reichte das Geld, um Katspaugh und ich sid:" All right, Katspaugh, nicht einen Pfennig zahlen ihn, bis er beendet seinen Mund. "Er schaltet dann und dort."

    Gatsby hat ein Arm eines jeden von uns und zogen uns in das Restaurant, woraufhin Herr Wolfsheim Verschlucken einen neuen Satz war er ab und verfiel in einen somnambulatory Abstraktion.

    "Highballs?" Fragte der Oberkellner.

    "Dies ist ein schönes Restaurant hier", sagte Herr Wolfsheim, Blick auf die Presbyterian Nymphen an der Decke. "Aber ich mag auf der anderen Straßenseite besser!"

    "Ja, highballs", stimmte Gatsby "und dann an Herrn Wolfsheim:" Es ist zu heiß dort. "

    "Hot-und klein-ja", sagte Herr Wolfsheim ", aber voller Erinnerungen."

    "Was ist das?", Fragte ich.

    "Die alte Metropole.

    "Die alte Metropole," brütete Herr Wolfsheim düster. "Gefüllt mit Gesichter tot und fort. Gefüllt mit Freunden für immer der Vergangenheit an. Ich kann nicht vergessen, so lange wie ich lebe die Nacht sie erschossen Rosy Rosenthal gibt. Er war sechs Jahre alt, von uns am Tisch, und Rosy hatte essen und trinken viel ganzen Abend. Wann war es fast Morgen der Kellner kam zu ihm mit einem Blick lustig und sagt, will jemand zu sprechen, die ihm außerhalb. "All right", sagt Rosy, und beginnt zu bekommen, und ich zog ihn in seinen Stuhl.

    "" Lassen Sie die Bastarde kommen hier, wenn sie möchten, dass Sie, Rosy, aber du nicht, so helfen Sie mir, außerhalb dieses Zimmers. "

    "Es war vier Uhr morgens dann, und wenn wir von der Jalousien, die wir von Tageslicht gesehen."

    "Hat er gehen?", Fragte ich unschuldig.

    "Sicher, dass er ging." Herr Wolfsheim Nase blitzte mich empört. "Er drehte sich um in der Tür und sagt:" Lassen Sie sich nicht, dass die Kellner nehmen meinen Kaffee! "Dann ging er auf dem Bürgersteig, und sie schoss ihm drei Mal in seinem vollen Bauch und fuhr weg."

    "Vier von ihnen waren Stromschlag", sagte ich, erinnern.

    "Fünf, mit Becker." Seine Nase wandte sich an mich in einer Art und Weise interessiert. "Ich verstehe Sie suchen für ein Unternehmen gonnegtion."

    Die Gegenüberstellung dieser beiden Bemerkungen war erschreckend. Gatsby antwortete mir:

    "Oh, nein," rief er aus, "das ist nicht der Mensch."

    "Nein?" Mr. Wolfsheim schien enttäuscht.

    "Dies ist nur ein Freund. Ich hab 'doch gesagt, wir sprechen, dass eine andere Zeit. "

    "Ich bitte um Verzeihung", sagte Herr Wolfsheim, "Ich hatte eine falsche Mann".

    Ein saftiges Hash angekommen, und Herr Wolfsheim, zu vergessen, die sentimentale Stimmung der alten Metropole, fing an zu essen, mit wilden Delikatesse. Seine Augen, mittlerweile, roved sehr langsam rund um die Zimmer-er den Bogen, indem Sie, um die Menschen, die direkt hinter. Ich denke, dass, außer für meine Anwesenheit, er hätte einen kurzen Blick unter den eigenen Tisch.

    "Schau mal hier, alte Sport", sagte Gatsby, neigt zu mir: "Ich fürchte, ich habe Sie ein wenig verärgert diesem Morgen in das Auto."

    Es war das Lächeln wieder, aber dieses Mal habe ich statt gegen sie.

    "Ich weiss nicht, wie Geheimnisse," antwortete ich. "Und ich verstehe nicht, warum Sie nicht kommen und sagen Sie mir, offen gesagt, was Sie wollen. Warum hat sie alle haben zu kommen, durch Miss Baker? "

    "Oh, es ist nichts hinterhältige", versicherte er mir. "Miss Baker ist eine großartige Sportlerin, Sie wissen, und sie würde nie etwas tun, das war nicht in Ordnung."

    Plötzlich blickte er auf seine Uhr, sprang auf und eilte aus dem Raum, so dass ich mit Herrn Wolfsheim auf dem Tisch.

    "Er hat zu Telefon," sagte Mr. Wolfsheim, nachdem ihm mit den Augen. "Feiner Kerl, ist er nicht? Schöne zu sehen und eine perfekte Gentleman. "

    "Ja."

    "Er ist ein Mann Oggsford."

    "Oh!"

    "Er ging zu Oggsford College in England. Sie wissen, Oggsford College? "

    "Ich habe davon gehört."

    "Es ist einer der bekanntesten Hochschulen der Welt."

    "Haben Sie bekannt Gatsby für eine lange Zeit?" Fragte ich.

    "Einige Jahre", antwortete er in einer Art und Weise befriedigt. "Ich habe das Vergnügen, seine Bekanntschaft nur nach dem Krieg. Aber ich wusste, dass ich entdeckt habe ein Mann der feinen Zucht, nachdem ich sprach mit ihm eine Stunde. Ich sagte mir: "Es ist die Art von Mensch Sie gerne mit nach Hause nehmen und einführen zu Ihrer Mutter und Schwester".. "Er pausiert. "Ich sehe Sie suchen auf meiner Manschette Tasten." Ich hatte nicht sich mit ihnen, aber ich habe jetzt.

    Sie bestanden aus seltsam vertraut Stück Elfenbein.

    "Schönsten Exemplare der menschlichen Molaren", sagte er mir.

    "Gut!" Ich inspiziert werden. "Das ist eine sehr interessante Idee."

    "Ja." Er spiegelte seine Ärmel unter seinen Mantel. "Ja, Gatsby's sehr vorsichtig über die Frauen. Er würde nie so viel, wie sich bei einem Freund der Frau. "

    Wenn der Gegenstand dieses instinktive Vertrauen wieder zurück auf den Tisch und setzte sich Herr Wolfsheim trank seinen Kaffee mit einem Ruck und hat zu seinen Füßen.

    "Ich habe mein Mittagessen", sagte er, "und ich werde, um aus Ihnen zwei junge Männer, bevor ich meine outstay zu begrüßen."

    "Keine Eile, Meyer," sagte Gatsby, ohne Begeisterung. Herr Wolfsheim, die seine Hand in einer Art Segen.

    "Sie sind sehr höflich, aber ich gehöre zu einer anderen Generation", verkündete er feierlich. "Sie sitzen hier und diskutieren Sie Ihre Sport-und junge Damen und -" Er lieferte eine imaginäre Substantiv mit einer neuen Welle von der Hand. "Was mich betrifft, bin ich fünfzig Jahre alt, und ich werde mich jedoch nicht auf Sie nicht mehr."

    Als er schüttelte Hände und wandte sich ab seinem tragischen Nase war Zittern. Ich fragte mich, wenn ich etwas gesagt hatte ihn zu beleidigen.

    "Er wird manchmal sehr sentimental", erklärt Gatsby. "Dies ist eine seiner sentimentalen Tage. Er ist ganz ein Zeichen in New York ein Bewohner des Broadway. "

    "Wer ist er, trotzdem, ein Schauspieler?"

    "Nein"

    "Ein Zahnarzt?"

    "Meyer Wolfsheim? Nein, er ist ein Spieler. "Gatsby zögerte, dann kühl hinzugefügt:" Er ist der Mann, der hat die Welt der Serie in 1919. "

    "Feste der Welt-Serie?", Wiederholte ich.

    Die Idee gestaffelte mich. Ich erinnerte mich an, natürlich, dass der Welt-Serie hatte es in 1919, aber wenn ich hatte gedacht, der es auf alles, was ich hätte gedacht, der es als eine Sache, die nur passiert ist, das Ende der Kette einige unvermeidlich. Es kam nie zu mir, dass ein Mann könnte das Spiel mit dem Glauben von fünfzig Millionen Menschen mit dem Single-Geist weht ein Einbrecher einen Safe.

    "Wie hat er gerade das tun?", Fragte ich nach einer Minute.

    "Er sah die Chance."

    "Warum ist er nicht im Gefängnis?"

    "Sie können es sich nicht um ihn, alte Sport. Er ist ein intelligenter Mensch. "

    Ich bestand auf Zahlung der Anreise. Als der Kellner brachte ich meine ändern erblickte Tom Buchanan in den überfüllten Saal.

    "Kommen Sie mit mir für eine Minute", sagte ich, "ich habe zu sagen hallo zu jemand." Als er sah, uns Tom sprang auf und nahm ein halbes Dutzend Schritte in unsere Richtung.

    "Where've Sie schon?" Demamded er eifrig. "Daisy ist wütend, weil Sie noch nicht aufgerufen."

    "Das ist Herr Gatsby, Herr Buchanan."

    Sie schüttelte kurz die Hände, und angespannt, ungewohnte Aussehen Verlegenheit kam Gatsby Gesicht.

    "How've Sie schon, wie Sie möchten?", Forderte Tom von mir. "Sie How'd geschehen, um so weit zu essen?"

    "Ich habe Mittagessen mit Herrn Gatsby".

    Ich wandte mich an Herrn Gatsby, aber er war nicht mehr da.

    Ein Tag im Oktober neunzehn bis siebzehn --

    (Jordanien, sagte Baker, dass Nachmittag, sitzt sehr gerade auf einer geraden Stuhl in der Tee-Garten an der Plaza Hotel)

    -Ich war zu Fuß entlang von einem Ort zum anderen, zur Hälfte auf die Bürgersteige und die andere Hälfte auf dem Rasen. Ich war glücklicher über den Rasen, da hatte ich auf Schuhe aus England mit Gummi Nobs auf den Fußsohlen, dass etwas in den weichen Boden. Ich hatte auf eine neue Plaid Rock auch, dass blies ein wenig in den Wind, und wenn dies geschehen ist die rot-weiß-blauen Fahnen vor den Häusern streckte die steifen und sagte Tut-Tut-Tut-TUT, in eine ablehnende Weg.

    Die größte der Banner und die größte der Rasen gehörte Daisy Fay Haus. Sie war gerade achtzehn, zwei Jahre älter als ich, und mit Abstand das beliebteste aller jungen Mädchen in Louisville. Sie in Weiß gekleidet und hatte einen kleinen weißen Roadster, und den ganzen Tag über das Telefon in ihrem Haus und begeistert junge Offiziere aus Camp Taylor forderte das Privileg, dass ihr die glücklichen Gewinner Nacht. "Wie auch immer, für eine Stunde!"

    Als ich ihr gegenüber Haus an diesem Morgen ihre weißen Roadster wurde neben der Eindämmung, und sie saß mit einem Leutnant ich noch nie zuvor gesehen hatten. Sie waren so vertiefen in jedem anderen, dass sie nicht mich, bis ich war fünf Meter entfernt.

    "Hallo, Jordanien," rief sie unerwartet. "Bitte kommen Sie hier."

    Ich war geschmeichelt, dass sie wollten mit mir sprechen, da alle älteren Mädchen Ich bewunderte sie die meisten. Sie fragte mich, ob ich an das Rote Kreuz und Bandagen. Ich war. Nun, dann würde ich ihnen sagen, dass sie sich nicht an diesem Tag? Der Offizier sah Daisy, während sie sprach, in einer Weise, dass jeder junge Mädchen möchte sich irgendwann auf, und da schien es mir romantische Ich habe vergessen, seit dem Vorfall. Sein Name war Jay Gatsby, und ich habe nicht auf die Augen legen ihn wieder für einen Zeitraum von vier Jahren, auch nach dem ich ihn auf Long Island habe ich nicht erkennen, es war der gleiche Mann.

    Das war neunzehn bis siebzehn. Durch die im nächsten Jahr hatte ich ein paar Beaux mich, und ich fing an zu spielen, Turniere, so dass ich nicht sehen, Daisy sehr oft. Sie ging mit einem etwas älteren Publikum-, wenn sie sich mit jedem an. Wilde Gerüchte wurden über ihre Umlauf-how ihrer Mutter gefunden hatten ihre Verpackung ihrer Tasche ein Winternacht, um New York und sagen, gut durch die mit einem Soldaten, der sich in Übersee. Sie war wirksam verhindert, aber sie war nicht zu sprechen, mit ihrer Familie für mehrere Wochen. Nach, dass sie nicht spielen, um mit den Soldaten nicht mehr, sondern nur mit ein paar flachen-footed, kurzsichtig junge Männer in der Stadt, die sich nicht in der Armee an.

    Mit der im Herbst nächsten Jahres war sie wieder Homosexuell, Homosexuell wie eh und je. Sie hatte ein Debüt nach dem Waffenstillstand, und im Februar war sie vermutlich mit einem Mann aus New Orleans. Im Juni heiratete sie Tom Buchanan von Chicago, mit mehr Pomp and Circumstance Louisville als jemals wusste vor. Er kam mit einem hundert Personen in vier private Autos, vermietet und eine ganze Etage des Hotel Seelbach, und der Tag vor der Hochzeit gab er ihr eine Perlenkette im Wert von dreihundertfünfzigtausend Dollar.

    Ich war Brautjungfer. Ich kam in ihr Zimmer eine halbe Stunde vor dem Abendessen Braut, und fand sie auf ihrem Bett liegend, wie liebevoll, wie der Juni-Nacht in ihrem Kleid mit Blumen-und betrunken wie ein Affe. sie hatte eine Flasche Sauternes in der einen Hand und ein Schreiben, in dem anderen.

    "" Gratulate mir ", murmelte sie. "Nie hatte ein Getränk vor, aber oh, wie ich es genießen."

    "What's the matter, Daisy?"

    Ich hatte Angst, ich kann Ihnen sagen, ich würde nie gesehen wie ein Mädchen, dass vor.

    "Hier, deares'." Sie groped etwa in einem Abfall-Korb hatte sie mit ihr auf dem Bett und zog die Perlenkette. "Take 'em down-Treppen und geben' em zurück zu wer sie gehören. Tell 'em all Daisy Change "ihre Mine. Sprich: "Daisy's Wandel" ihr mir! "."

    Sie fing an zu weinen-sie weinte und weinte. Ich eilte hin und fand ihre Mutter die Magd, und wir die Tür und bekam sie in ein kaltes Bad. Sie würde nicht mehr los von dem Schreiben. Sie nahm ihn in die Badewanne mit ihr und drückte sie in einem nassen Ball, und nur ich es in der SOAP-Gericht, als sie sah, daß es kam zu Stücken wie Schnee.

    Aber sie hat nicht gesagt, ein anderes Wort. Wir gaben ihr Spirituosen von Ammoniak und Eis auf der Stirn und ihre Haken wieder in ihr Kleid, und eine halbe Stunde später, wenn wir gingen aus dem Zimmer, die Perlen wurden um den Hals und wurde über den Vorfall. Am nächsten Tag um fünf Uhr heiratete sie Tom Buchanan, ohne so viel wie ein Schauer, und begann auf einem von drei Monaten "Reise in die Südsee.

    Ich sah, wie sie in Santa Barbara, wenn sie kamen zurück, und ich dachte, ich würde nie eine Frau so verrückt nach ihrem Ehemann. Wenn er den Raum für eine Minute der sie sich unsicher um, und sagen: "Wo ist Tom weg?" Und tragen die meisten abstrakten Ausdruck, bis sie sah ihn kommen in der Tür. Sie werden sich auf dem Sand mit seinem Kopf in ihren Schoß von der Stunde, reibt die Finger über die Augen und sucht ihn mit unergründlichen Freude. Es war berührend zu sehen, sie zusammen-er Sie zum Lachen in einer totgeschwiegen, so fasziniert. Das war im August. Eine Woche, nachdem ich links Santa Barbara Tom lief in einem Wagen auf der Straße Ventura eine Nacht, und riss ein Vorderrad aus seinem Auto. Das Mädchen war mit ihm haben in der Presse, weil ihr Arm war gebrochen-war sie eine der Zimmermädchen im Hotel Santa Barbara.

    Der nächste April Daisy hatte ihre kleine Tochter, und sie gingen nach Frankreich für ein Jahr. Ich sah sie ein Frühling in Cannes, und später in Deauville, und dann kamen sie zurück nach Chicago, um nach unten. Daisy war beliebt in Chicago, wie Sie wissen. Sie zog mit einer schnellen Menge, alle von ihnen jung und reich und wild, aber sie kam mit einem absolut perfekten Ruf. Vielleicht, weil sie nicht trinken. Es ist ein großer Vorteil, nicht zu trinken den Menschen schwer zu trinken. Sie können Ihre Zunge, und darüber hinaus können Sie Zeit eine kleine Unregelmäßigkeit der eigenen, so dass alle anderen ist so blind, dass sie nicht sehen oder Pflege. Vielleicht Daisy nie für amour auf allen und noch gibt es etwas, dass die Stimme von ihr. . . .

    Nun, etwa sechs Wochen, hörte sie den Namen Gatsby zum ersten Mal seit Jahren. Es war, als ich Sie gefragt,-Erinnern Sie sich noch?-Wenn Sie wussten Gatsby in West Egg. Nachdem Sie war zu Hause kam sie in mein Zimmer und weckte mich und sagte: "Was Gatsby?" Und wenn ich ihn-ich-war halb eingeschlafen, sagte sie in der seltsamsten Stimme, dass es der Mann, den sie zu kennen . Es war nicht bis dahin, dass ich diesen Gatsby mit dem Offizier in ihrem weißen Auto.

    Wenn Jordanien Baker beendet hatte sagen wir all dies hatte der Plaza für eine halbe Stunde und fuhren in einem durch Victoria Central Park. Die Sonne hatte sich hinter den hohen Wohnungen der Filmstars im Westen Fifties, und die klare Stimme von Mädchen, die bereits gesammelt wie Grillen auf dem Rasen, stieg durch den heißen Dämmerung:

    "Ich bin der Scheich von Araby.
    Ihre Liebe gehört mir.
    In der Nacht, wenn Sie schlafen
    In Ihrem Zelt ich Kriechen - "

    "Es war ein seltsamer Zufall", sagte ich.

    "Aber es war kein Zufall ist."

    "Warum nicht?"

    "Gatsby gekauft, dass Haus, so dass Daisy wäre nur über die Bucht."

    Dann hatte man nicht nur die Stars, auf die er angestrebt, dass über Nacht Juni. Er kam zu mir lebt, hat sich plötzlich aus dem Bauch seiner Pracht zwecklos.

    "Er möchte wissen", so Jordan, "wenn Sie laden Daisy zu Ihrem Haus einige Nachmittag und dann soll er kommen."

    Die Bescheidenheit der Nachfrage schüttelte mich. Er hatte fünf Jahre gewartet, und kaufte ein Haus, wo er verzichtet starlight zu Casual-Motten, so dass er "kommen." Einige Nachmittag ein Fremder Garten.

    "Habe ich haben zu wissen, all das könnte sich fragen, bevor er wie ein kleines Ding?"

    "Er hat Angst, er ist so lange gewartet. Er dachte, Sie könnten beleidigt. Sie sehen, er ist eine regelmäßige harte darunter alle. "

    Etwas beunruhigt mich.

    "Warum hat er nicht bitten Sie, ein Treffen zu arrangieren?"

    "Er will sie, um zu sehen, sein Haus", erklärte sie. "Und Ihr Haus ist direkt nebenan."

    "Oh!"

    "Ich denke, dass er ein halb erwartet sie wandern in einer seiner Parteien, einige Nacht" ging auf Jordanien, "aber sie nie getan hat. Dann begann er die Menschen fragen, wenn sie zufällig kannte sie, und ich war der erste der er gefunden wurde. Es war in dieser Nacht sandte er mir in seinem Tanz, und sollten Sie gehört haben, die Ausarbeitung, wie er arbeitete bis es. Natürlich habe ich sofort vorgeschlagen, ein Mittagessen in New York und ich dachte, er würde verrückt:

    "" Ich möchte nicht, dass zu tun, aus dem Weg! "Sagte er gehalten. "Ich möchte, dass sie gleich nebenan."

    "Wenn ich gesagt, Sie waren ein besonderer Freund von Tom's, begann er, die das gesamte Konzept. Er weiß nicht sehr viel über Tom, wenn er sagt, er liest eine Chicago Papier seit Jahren nur auf die Chance, einen Blick auf den Fang von Daisy's name. "

    Es war dunkel, und als wir tauchte unter einer kleinen Brücke ich meinen Arm um Jordan's Golden Schulter und zog sie zu mir und bat sie zum Abendessen ein. Plötzlich war ich nicht denke an Daisy und Gatsby nicht mehr, aber dieses sauber, hart, begrenzt Person, die sich in allgemeinen Skepsis, und lehnte sich zurück, die munter nur innerhalb des Kreises von meinem Arm. Ein Satz begann zu schlagen, in meinen Ohren mit einer Art von berauschenden Erlebnis: "Es gibt nur die verfolgt, die Verfolgung, die beschäftigt sind und die müde."

    "Und Daisy hätte etwas in ihrem Leben", murmelte Jordanien mir.

    "Will sie, um zu sehen, Gatsby?"

    "Sie ist nicht zu wissen. Gatsby will nicht, dass sie zu wissen. Du bist nur vermeintlichen laden sie zum Tee. "

    Wir kamen an einem Staudamm von dunklen Bäume, und dann die Fassade Neunundfünfzigste Street, ein Block von zarten blassen Licht strahlte in de n Park. Im Gegensatz zu Gatsby und Tom Buchanan, hatte ich keine Mädchen, dessen Gesicht körperloses schwebte entlang der dunklen Gesimsen und Verblindung Zeichen, und so habe ich das Mädchen neben mir, der Straffung meine Arme. Ihre WAN-, Mund lächelte verächtlich, und so habe ich sie wieder näher, dieses Mal auf mein Gesicht.[/font]
  16. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    I like this.

    but doesn't it normally have pink around the edges and some blue creature at the bottom? oh and a penis for a pointer
  17. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    The fact that an exceptional thread is required to provide you with a good laugh says more about Chanology than a hundred ego-wank academic papers about emergent Internet phenomena.
  18. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?


    33lypo9.jpg
  19. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    [SIZE="7"][COLOR="DarkRed"][FONT="Arial Black"]tl;dr[/FONT][/COLOR][/SIZE]

    greatgatsby.jpg
  20. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    33lypok.jpg
  21. JMBrandon Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    These are the kind of men who go home and beat their husbands!
  22. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    [IMG]
  23. JMBrandon Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    These are what homosexual bees would look like~
  24. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?




    x0nos9.jpg
  25. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    You got all sorts of smart comments for "gay" wrestlers, eh?

    Well BRING THE NOISE you pale excuse for a basement dweller.

    wwfx.jpg
  26. Mutante Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Newfags can't gaywrestle.

    145160875_e2d978434b.jpg
  27. JMBrandon Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    You win-
    I can't bring as much noise about gay wrestlers that you can-

    Only clever thing I could say about his is....
    ROYAAAAAL RAAAINBOOOOOW! I mean... rumble, RUMBLE!
  28. ZeLyt Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Why is Golddust not on there?
  29. Ann O'Nymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Was Jeff Stone a wrestler ? I kind of recognize his smile.
  30. Ogsonofgroo Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    RIP Andre ya big fuckin' drunk lug & pussycat! Well remembered the day ya passed out in the lobby of the Strat (after about 20 jugs of cheep beers) and we put up a barrier around ys so nobody could bugs ya, hell, we couldn't move ya! *sigh*

    Oh, the Snake ain't gay, but he did weird things wit snakes, erm, is that a bads pictuer?

    :D
  31. Anonymous Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Ummm.. well, Snake did appear at a wrestling event recently 'cause he was behind on his car payments.

    [IMG]
  32. anmoyunos Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Chapter 5
  33. Ogsonofgroo Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    ^^^^^^^^^^Duz above poster have a hate on fer this thread or just being goofey? ^^^^^

    There's wasting bandwidth, then there's just a waste of time. Oar both.

    Hmmmm, wussup mon?

    :D
  34. anmoyunos Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    [strike]Chapter 7
    It was when curiosity about Gatsby was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on one Saturday night—and, as obscurely as it had begun, his career as Trimalchio was over. Only gradually did I become aware that the automobiles which turned expectantly into his drive stayed for just a minute and then drove sulkily away. Wondering if he were sick I went over to find out—an unfamiliar butler with a villainous face squinted at me suspiciously from the door.

    “Is Mr. Gatsby sick?”

    “Nope.” After a pause he added “sir.” in a dilatory, grudging way.

    “I hadn’t seen him around, and I was rather worried. Tell him Mr. Carraway came over.”

    “Who?” he demanded rudely.

    “Carraway.”

    “Carraway. All right, I’ll tell him.” Abruptly he slammed the door.

    My Finn informed me that Gatsby had dismissed every servant in his house a week ago and replaced them with half a dozen others, who never went into West Egg Village to be bribed by the tradesmen, but ordered moderate supplies over the telephone. The grocery boy reported that the kitchen looked like a pigsty, and the general opinion in the village was that the new people weren’t servants at all.

    Next day Gatsby called me on the phone.

    “Going away?” I inquired.

    “No, old sport.”

    “I hear you fired all your servants.”

    “I wanted somebody who wouldn’t gossip. Daisy comes over quite often—in the afternoons.”

    So the whole caravansary had fallen in like a card house at the disapproval in her eyes.

    “They’re some people Wolfsheim wanted to do something for. They’re all brothers and sisters. They used to run a small hotel.”

    “I see.”

    He was calling up at Daisy’s request—would I come to lunch at her house to-morrow? Miss Baker would be there. Half an hour later Daisy herself telephoned and seemed relieved to find that I was coming. Something was up. And yet I couldn’t believe that they would choose this occasion for a scene—especially for the rather harrowing scene that Gatsby had outlined in the garden.

    The next day was broiling, almost the last, certainly the warmest, of the summer. As my train emerged from the tunnel into sunlight, only the hot whistles of the National Biscuit Company broke the simmering hush at noon. The straw seats of the car hovered on the edge of combustion; the woman next to me perspired delicately for a while into her white shirtwaist, and then, as her newspaper dampened under her fingers, lapsed despairingly into deep heat with a desolate cry. Her pocket-book slapped to the floor.

    “Oh, my!” she gasped.

    I picked it up with a weary bend and handed it back to her, holding it at arm’s length and by the extreme tip of the corners to indicate that I had no designs upon it—but every one near by, including the woman, suspected me just the same.

    “Hot!” said the conductor to familiar faces. “Some weather! hot! hot! hot! Is it hot enough for you? Is it hot? Is it . . . ?”

    My commutation ticket came back to me with a dark stain from his hand. That any one should care in this heat whose flushed lips he kissed, whose head made damp the pajama pocket over his heart!

    . . . Through the hall of the Buchanans’ house blew a faint wind, carrying the sound of the telephone bell out to Gatsby and me as we waited at the door.

    “The master’s body!” roared the butler into the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, madame, but we can’t furnish it—it’s far too hot to touch this noon!”

    What he really said was: “Yes . . . yes . . . I’ll see.”

    He set down the receiver and came toward us, glistening slightly, to take our stiff straw hats.

    “Madame expects you in the salon!” he cried, needlessly indicating the direction. In this heat every extra gesture was an affront to the common store of life.

    The room, shadowed well with awnings, was dark and cool. Daisy and Jordan lay upon an enormous couch, like silver idols weighing down their own white dresses against the singing breeze of the fans.

    “We can’t move,” they said together.

    Jordan’s fingers, powdered white over their tan, rested for a moment in mine.

    “And Mr. Thomas Buchanan, the athlete?” I inquired.

    Simultaneously I heard his voice, gruff, muffled, husky, at the hall telephone.

    Gatsby stood in the centre of the crimson carpet and gazed around with fascinated eyes. Daisy watched him and laughed, her sweet, exciting laugh; a tiny gust of powder rose from her bosom into the air.

    “The rumor is,” whispered Jordan, “that that’s Tom’s girl on the telephone.”

    We were silent. The voice in the hall rose high with annoyance: “Very well, then, I won’t sell you the car at all. . . . I’m under no obligations to you at all . . . and as for your bothering me about it at lunch time, I won’t stand that at all!”

    “Holding down the receiver,” said Daisy cynically.

    “No, he’s not,” I assured her. “It’s a bona-fide deal. I happen to know about it.”

    Tom flung open the door, blocked out its space for a moment with his thick body, and hurried into the room.

    “Mr. Gatsby!” He put out his broad, flat hand with well-concealed dislike. “I’m glad to see you, sir. . . . Nick. . . .”

    “Make us a cold drink,” cried Daisy.

    As he left the room again she got up and went over to Gatsby and pulled his face down, kissing him on the mouth.

    “You know I love you,” she murmured.

    “You forget there’s a lady present,” said Jordan.

    Daisy looked around doubtfully.

    “You kiss Nick too.”

    “What a low, vulgar girl!”

    “I don’t care!” cried Daisy, and began to clog on the brick fireplace. Then she remembered the heat and sat down guiltily on the couch just as a freshly laundered nurse leading a little girl came into the room.

    “Bles-sed pre-cious,” she crooned, holding out her arms. “Come to your own mother that loves you.”

    The child, relinquished by the nurse, rushed across the room and rooted shyly into her mother’s dress.

    “The bles-sed pre-cious! Did mother get powder on your old yellowy hair? Stand up now, and say—How-de-do.”

    Gatsby and I in turn leaned down and took the small, reluctant hand. Afterward he kept looking at the child with surprise. I don’t think he had ever really believed in its existence before.

    “I got dressed before luncheon,” said the child, turning eagerly to Daisy.

    “That’s because your mother wanted to show you off.” Her face bent into the single wrinkle of the small, white neck. “You dream, you. You absolute little dream.”

    “Yes,” admitted the child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.”

    “How do you like mother’s friends?” Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do you think they’re pretty?”

    “Where’s Daddy?”

    “She doesn’t look like her father,” explained Daisy. “She looks like me. She’s got my hair and shape of the face.”

    Daisy sat back upon the couch. The nurse took a step forward and held out her hand.

    “Come, Pammy.”

    “Good-by, sweetheart!”

    With a reluctant backward glance the well-disciplined child held to her nurse’s hand and was pulled out the door, just as Tom came back, preceding four gin rickeys that clicked full of ice.

    Gatsby took up his drink.

    “They certainly look cool,” he said, with visible tension.

    We drank in long, greedy swallows.

    “I read somewhere that the sun’s getting hotter every year,” said Tom genially. “It seems that pretty soon the earth’s going to fall into the sun—or wait a minute—it’s just the opposite—the sun’s getting colder every year.

    “Come outside,” he suggested to Gatsby, “I’d like you to have a look at the place.”

    I went with them out to the veranda. On the green Sound, stagnant in the heat, one small sail crawled slowly toward the fresher sea. Gatsby’s eyes followed it momentarily; he raised his hand and pointed across the bay.

    “I’m right across from you.”

    “So you are.”

    Our eyes lifted over the rose-beds and the hot lawn and the weedy refuse of the dog-days along-shore. Slowly the white wings of the boat moved against the blue cool limit of the sky. Ahead lay the scalloped ocean and the abounding blessed isles.

    “There’s sport for you,” said Tom, nodding. “I’d like to be out there with him for about an hour.”

    We had luncheon in the dining-room, darkened too against the heat, and drank down nervous gayety with the cold ale.

    “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?” cried Daisy, “and the day after that, and the next thirty years?”

    “Don’t be morbid,” Jordan said. “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

    “But it’s so hot,” insisted Daisy, on the verge of tears, “and everything’s so confused. Let’s all go to town!”

    Her voice struggled on through the heat, beating against it, molding its senselessness into forms.

    “I’ve heard of making a garage out of a stable,” Tom was saying to Gatsby, “but I’m the first man who ever made a stable out of a garage.”

    “Who wants to go to town?” demanded Daisy insistently. Gatsby’s eyes floated toward her. “Ah,” she cried, “you look so cool.”

    Their eyes met, and they stared together at each other, alone in space. With an effort she glanced down at the table.

    “You always look so cool,” she repeated.

    She had told him that she loved him, and Tom Buchanan saw. He was astounded. His mouth opened a little, and he looked at Gatsby, and then back at Daisy as if he had just recognized her as some one he knew a long time ago.

    “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man——”

    “All right,” broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to town. Come on—we’re all going to town.”

    He got up, his eyes still flashing between Gatsby and his wife. No one moved.

    “Come on!” His temper cracked a little. “What’s the matter, anyhow? If we’re going to town, let’s start.”

    His hand, trembling with his effort at self-control, bore to his lips the last of his glass of ale. Daisy’s voice got us to our feet and out on to the blazing gravel drive.

    “Are we just going to go?” she objected. “Like this? Aren’t we going to let any one smoke a cigarette first?”

    “Everybody smoked all through lunch.”

    “Oh, let’s have fun,” she begged him. “It’s too hot to fuss.” He didn’t answer.

    “Have it your own way,” she said. “Come on, Jordan.”

    They went up-stairs to get ready while we three men stood there shuffling the hot pebbles with our feet. A silver curve of the moon hovered already in the western sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly.

    “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort.

    “About a quarter of a mile down the road.”

    “Oh.”

    A pause.

    “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads——”

    “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window.

    “I’ll get some whiskey,” answered Tom. He went inside.

    Gatsby turned to me rigidly:

    “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.”

    “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of——” I hesitated.

    “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly.

    That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it. . . . high in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl. . . .

    Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms.

    “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.”

    “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom.

    “Yes.”

    “Well, you take my coupe and let me drive your car to town.”

    The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby.

    “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected.

    “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drug-store. You can buy anything at a drug-store nowadays.”

    A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face.

    “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.”

    He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm.

    “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupe.”

    She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind.

    “Did you see that?” demanded Tom.

    “See what?”

    He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along.

    “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science——”

    He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of the theoretical abyss.

    “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known——”

    “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously.

    “What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?”

    “About Gatsby.”

    “About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.”

    “And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully.

    “An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.”

    “Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.”

    “Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.”

    “Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly.

    “Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!”

    We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded eyes came into sight down the road, I remembered Gatsby’s caution about gasoline.

    “We’ve got enough to get us to town,” said Tom.

    “But there’s a garage right here,” objected Jordan. “I don’t want to get stalled in this baking heat.” Tom threw on both brakes impatiently, and we slid to an abrupt dusty stop under Wilson’s sign. After a moment the proprietor emerged from the interior of his establishment and gazed hollow-eyed at the car.

    “Let’s have some gas!” cried Tom roughly. “What do you think we stopped for—to admire the view?”

    “I’m sick,” said Wilson without moving. “Been sick all day.”

    “What’s the matter?”

    “I’m all run down.”

    “Well, shall I help myself?” Tom demanded. “You sounded well enough on the phone.”

    With an effort Wilson left the shade and support of the doorway and, breathing hard, unscrewed the cap of the tank. In the sunlight his face was green.

    “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch,” he said. “But I need money pretty bad, and I was wondering what you were going to do with your old car.”

    “How do you like this one?” inquired Tom. “I bought it last week.”

    “It’s a nice yellow one,” said Wilson, as he strained at the handle.

    “Like to buy it?”

    “Big chance,” Wilson smiled faintly. “No, but I could make some money on the other.”

    “What do you want money for, all of a sudden?”

    “I’ve been here too long. I want to get away. My wife and I want to go West.”

    “Your wife does,” exclaimed Tom, startled.

    “She’s been talking about it for ten years.” He rested for a moment against the pump, shading his eyes. “And now she’s going whether she wants to or not. I’m going to get her away.”

    The coupe flashed by us with a flurry of dust and the flash of a waving hand.

    “What do I owe you?” demanded Tom harshly.

    “I just got wised up to something funny the last two days,” remarked Wilson. “That’s why I want to get away. That’s why I been bothering you about the car.”

    “What do I owe you?”

    “Dollar twenty.”

    The relentless beating heat was beginning to confuse me and I had a bad moment there before I realized that so far his suspicions hadn’t alighted on Tom. He had discovered that Myrtle had some sort of life apart from him in another world, and the shock had made him physically sick. I stared at him and then at Tom, who had made a parallel discovery less than an hour before—and it occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child.

    “I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over to-morrow afternoon.”

    That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ashheaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away.

    In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife.

    There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easy-going blue coupe.

    (removed for size)

    The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupe came to a stop, and Daisy signaled us to draw up alongside.

    “Where are we going?” she cried.

    “How about the movies?”

    “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly, “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.”

    “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.”

    Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side street and out of his life forever.

    But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlor of a suite in the Plaza Hotel.

    The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bath-rooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea.”—we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny. . . .

    The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted Only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair.

    “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and every one laughed.

    “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around.

    “There aren’t any more.”

    “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe——”

    “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.”

    He unrolled the bottle of whiskey from the towel and put it on the table.

    “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.”

    There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me.”—but this time no one laughed.

    “I’ll pick it up,” I offered.

    “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.

    “That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?” said Tom sharply.

    “What is?”

    “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?”

    “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.”

    As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below.

    “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally.

    “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered, “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?”

    “Biloxi,” he answered shortly.

    “A man named Biloxi. ‘blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.”

    “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.”

    “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked.

    “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminum putter that I use to-day.”

    The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea-ea-ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began.

    “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.”

    “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?”

    “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.”

    “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.”

    “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.”

    Jordan smiled.

    “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.”

    Tom and I looked at each other blankly.

    “Biloxi?”

    “First place, we didn’t have any president——”

    Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly.

    “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.”

    “Not exactly.”

    “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.”

    “Yes—I went there.”

    A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.”

    Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but, the silence was unbroken by his “thank you.” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last.

    “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby.

    “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.”

    “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.”

    Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby.

    “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the Armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.”

    I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before.

    Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table.

    “Open the whiskey, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself. . . . Look at the mint!”

    “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.”

    “Go on,” Gatsby said politely.

    “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?”

    They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content.

    “He isn’t causing a row.” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.”

    “Self-control!” Repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out. . . . Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.”

    Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization.

    “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan.

    “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.”

    Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete.

    “I’ve got something to tell YOU, old sport——” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention.

    “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?”

    “That’s a good idea.” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.”

    “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.”

    “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.”

    “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically.

    Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement.

    “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!”

    At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions.

    “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.”

    “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.”

    Tom turned to Daisy sharply.

    “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?”

    “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes.”—but there was no laughter in his eyes——” to think that you didn’t know.”

    “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair.

    “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.”

    “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head.

    “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.”

    “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.”

    Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

    “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.”

    She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?”

    “You never loved him.”

    She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.

    “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.

    “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.

    “No.”

    From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air.

    “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone. . . . “Daisy?”

    “Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancor was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

    “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.”

    Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.

    “You loved me TOO?” he repeated.

    “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’re things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.”

    The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby.

    “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now——”

    “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.”

    “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom.

    She turned to her husband.

    “As if it mattered to you,” she said.

    “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.”

    “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.”

    “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?”

    “Daisy’s leaving you.”

    “Nonsense.”

    “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort.

    “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.”

    “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.”

    “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfsheim—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further to-morrow.”

    “You can suit yourself about that, old sport.” said Gatsby steadily.

    “I found out what your ‘drug-stores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of side-street drug-stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.”

    “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.”

    “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of YOU.”

    “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.”

    “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfsheim scared him into shutting his mouth.”

    That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face.

    “That drug-store business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.”

    I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way.

    It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.

    The voice begged again to go.

    “PLEASE, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.”

    Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage, she had had, were definitely gone.

    “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.”

    She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn.

    “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.”

    They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity.

    After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whiskey in the towel.

    “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? . . . Nick?”

    I didn’t answer.

    “Nick?” He asked again.

    “What?”

    “Want any?”

    “No . . . I just remembered that to-day’s my birthday.”

    I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

    It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupe with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

    So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.

    The young Greek, Michaelis, who ran the coffee joint beside the ashheaps was the principal witness at the inquest. He had slept through the heat until after five, when he strolled over to the garage, and found George Wilson sick in his office—really sick, pale as his own pale hair and shaking all over. Michaelis advised him to go to bed, but Wilson refused, saying that he’d miss a lot of business if he did. While his neighbor was trying to persuade him a violent racket broke out overhead.

    “I’ve got my wife locked in up there,” explained Wilson calmly. “She’s going to stay there till the day after to-morrow, and then we’re going to move away.”

    Michaelis was astonished; they had been neighbors for four years, and Wilson had never seemed faintly capable of such a statement. Generally he was one of these worn-out men: when he wasn’t working, he sat on a chair in the doorway and stared at the people and the cars that passed along the road. When any one spoke to him he invariably laughed in an agreeable, colorless way. He was his wife’s man and not his own.

    So naturally Michaelis tried to find out what had happened, but Wilson wouldn’t say a word—instead he began to throw curious, suspicious glances at his visitor and ask him what he’d been doing at certain times on certain days. Just as the latter was getting uneasy, some workmen came past the door bound for his restaurant, and Michaelis took the opportunity to get away, intending to come back later. But he didn’t. He supposed he forgot to, that’s all. When he came outside again, a little after seven, he was reminded of the conversation because he heard Mrs. Wilson’s voice, loud and scolding, down-stairs in the garage.

    “Beat me!” he heard her cry. “Throw me down and beat me, you dirty little coward!”

    A moment later she rushed out into the dusk, waving her hands and shouting—before he could move from his door the business was over.

    The “death car.” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Michaelis wasn’t even sure of its color—he told the first policeman that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extinguished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood with the dust.

    Michaelis and this man reached her first, but when they had torn open her shirtwaist, still damp with perspiration, they saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heart beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.

    We saw the three or four automobiles and the crowd when we were still some distance away.

    “Wreck!” said Tom. “That’s good. Wilson’ll have a little business at last.”

    He slowed down, but still without any intention of stopping, until, as we came nearer, the hushed, intent faces of the people at the garage door made him automatically put on the brakes.

    “We’ll take a look,” he said doubtfully, “just a look.”

    I became aware now of a hollow, wailing sound which issued incessantly from the garage, a sound which as we got out of the coupe and walked toward the door resolved itself into the words “Oh, my God!” uttered over and over in a gasping moan.

    “There’s some bad trouble here,” said Tom excitedly.

    He reached up on tiptoes and peered over a circle of heads into the garage, which was lit only by a yellow light in a swinging wire basket overhead. Then he made a harsh sound in his throat, and with a violent thrusting movement of his powerful arms pushed his way through.

    The circle closed up again with a running murmur of expostulation; it was a minute before I could see anything at all. Then new arrivals deranged the line, and Jordan and I were pushed suddenly inside.

    Myrtle Wilson’s body, wrapped in a blanket, and then in another blanket, as though she suffered from a chill in the hot night, lay on a work-table by the wall, and Tom, with his back to us, was bending over it, motionless. Next to him stood a motorcycle policeman taking down names with much sweat and correction in a little book. At first I couldn’t find the source of the high, groaning words that echoed clamorously through the bare garage—then I saw Wilson standing on the raised threshold of his office, swaying back and forth and holding to the doorposts with both hands. Some man was talking to him in a low voice and attempting, from time to time, to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Wilson neither heard nor saw. His eyes would drop slowly from the swinging light to the laden table by the wall, and then jerk back to the light again, and he gave out incessantly his high, horrible call:

    “Oh, my Ga-od! Oh, my Ga-od! oh, Ga-od! oh, my Ga-od!”

    Presently Tom lifted his head with a jerk and, after staring around the garage with glazed eyes, addressed a mumbled incoherent remark to the policeman.

    “M-a-y-.” the policeman was saying, “-o——”

    “No, r-.” corrected the man, “M-a-v-r-o——”

    “Listen to me!” muttered Tom fiercely.

    “r” said the policeman, “o——”

    “g——”

    “g——” He looked up as Tom’s broad hand fell sharply on his shoulder. “What you want, fella?”

    “What happened?—that’s what I want to know.”

    “Auto hit her. Ins’antly killed.”

    “Instantly killed,” repeated Tom, staring.

    “She ran out ina road. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even stopus car.”

    “There was two cars,” said Michaelis, “one comin’, one goin’, see?”

    “Going where?” asked the policeman keenly.

    “One goin’ each way. Well, she.”—his hand rose toward the blankets but stopped half way and fell to his side——” she ran out there an’ the one comin’ from N’york knock right into her, goin’ thirty or forty miles an hour.”

    “What’s the name of this place here?” demanded the officer.

    “Hasn’t got any name.”

    A pale well-dressed negro stepped near.

    “It was a yellow car,” he said, “big yellow car. New.”

    “See the accident?” asked the policeman.

    “No, but the car passed me down the road, going faster’n forty. Going fifty, sixty.”

    “Come here and let’s have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.”

    Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his gasping cries:

    “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!”

    Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms.

    “You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing gruffness.

    Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright.

    “Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupe we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.”

    Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes.

    “What’s all that?” he demanded.

    “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it . . . it was a yellow car.”

    Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom.

    “And what color’s your car?”

    “It’s a blue car, a coupe.”

    “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said.

    Some one who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away.

    “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct——” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back.

    “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.”

    Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago.

    Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupe raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face.

    “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.”

    The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines.

    “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly.

    “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do to-night.”

    A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases.

    “I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

    “No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.”

    Jordan put her hand on my arm.

    “Won’t you come in, Nick?”

    “No, thanks.”

    I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more.

    “It’s only half-past nine,” she said.

    I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate.

    I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon.

    “What are you doing?” I inquired.

    “Just standing here, old sport.”

    Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of ‘Wolfsheim’s people,’ behind him in the dark shrubbery.

    “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute.

    “Yes.”

    He hesitated.

    “Was she killed?”

    “Yes.”

    “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.”

    He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered.

    “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.”

    I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong.

    “Who was the woman?” he inquired.

    “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?”

    “Well, I tried to swing the wheel——” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth.

    “Was Daisy driving?”

    “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.”

    “It ripped her open——”

    “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on.

    “She’ll be all right to-morrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.”

    “He won’t touch her,’ I said. “He’s not thinking about her.”

    “I don’t trust him, old sport.”

    “How long are you going to wait?”

    “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.”

    A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows down-stairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the second floor.

    “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.”

    I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill.

    Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.

    They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

    As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive.

    “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously.

    “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.”

    He shook his head.

    “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.”

    He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing.
    [/strike]
  35. Snake Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    I love this book!!!
  36. Herro Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    [IMG]
  37. anmoyunos Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Work's almost over....


    [spoiler=Chapter 8

    I couldn’t sleep all night; a fog-horn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to tell him, something to warn him about, and morning would be too late.

    Crossing his lawn, I saw that his front door was still open and he was leaning against a table in the hall, heavy with dejection or sleep.

    “Nothing happened,” he said wanly. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”

    His house had never seemed so enormous to me as it did that night when we hunted through the great rooms for cigarettes. We pushed aside curtains that were like pavilions, and felt over innumerable feet of dark wall for electric light switches—once I tumbled with a sort of splash upon the keys of a ghostly piano. There was an inexplicable amount of dust everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as though they hadn’t been aired for many days. I found the humidor on an unfamiliar table, with two stale, dry cigarettes inside. Throwing open the French windows of the drawing-room, we sat smoking out into the darkness.

    “You ought to go away,” I said. “It’s pretty certain they’ll trace your car.”

    “Go away NOW, old sport?”

    “Go to Atlantic City for a week, or up to Montreal.”

    He wouldn’t consider it. He couldn’t possibly leave Daisy until he knew what she was going to do. He was clutching at some last hope and I couldn’t bear to shake him free.

    It was this night that he told me the strange story of his youth with Dan Cody—told it to me because “Jay Gatsby.” had broken up like glass against Tom’s hard malice, and the long secret extravaganza was played out. I think that he would have acknowledged anything now, without reserve, but he wanted to talk about Daisy.

    She was the first “nice” girl he had ever known. In various unrevealed capacities he had come in contact with such people, but always with indiscernible barbed wire between. He found her excitingly desirable. He went to her house, at first with other officers from Camp Taylor, then alone. It amazed him—he had never been in such a beautiful house before. but what gave it an air of breathless intensity, was that Daisy lived there—it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms up-stairs more beautiful and cool than other bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year’s shining motor-cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy—it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.

    But he knew that he was in Daisy’s house by a colossal accident. However glorious might be his future as Jay Gatsby, he was at present a penniless young man without a past, and at any moment the invisible cloak of his uniform might slip from his shoulders. So he made the most of his time. He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously— eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.

    He might have despised himself, for he had certainly taken her under false pretenses. I don’t mean that he had traded on his phantom millions, but he had deliberately given Daisy a sense of security; he let her believe that he was a person from much the same stratum as herself—that he was fully able to take care of her. As a matter of fact, he had no such facilities—he had no comfortable family standing behind him, and he was liable at the whim of an impersonal government to be blown anywhere about the world.

    But he didn’t despise himself and it didn’t turn out as he had imagined. He had intended, probably, to take what he could and go—but now he found that he had committed himself to the following of a grail. He knew that Daisy was extraordinary, but he didn’t realize just how extraordinary a “nice” girl could be. She vanished into her rich house, into her rich, full life, leaving Gatsby—nothing. He felt married to her, that was all.

    When they met again, two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who was, somehow, betrayed. Her porch was bright with the bought luxury of star-shine; the wicker of the settee squeaked fashionably as she turned toward him and he kissed her curious and lovely mouth. She had caught a cold, and it made her voice huskier and more charming than ever, and Gatsby was overwhelmingly aware of the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves, of the freshness of many clothes, and of Daisy, gleaming like silver, safe and proud above the hot struggles of the poor.

    “I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport. I even hoped for a while that she’d throw me over, but she didn’t, because she was in love with me too. She thought I knew a lot because I knew different things from her. . . . Well, there I was, ‘way off my ambitions, getting deeper in love every minute, and all of a sudden I didn’t care. What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?” On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a cold fall day, with fire in the room and her cheeks flushed. Now and then she moved and he changed his arm a little, and once he kissed her dark shining hair. The afternoon had made them tranquil for a while, as if to give them a deep memory for the long parting the next day promised. They had never been closer in their month of love, nor communicated more profoundly one with another, than when she brushed silent lips against his coat’s shoulder or when he touched the end of her fingers, gently, as though she were asleep.

    He did extraordinarily well in the war. He was a captain before he went to the front, and following the Argonne battles he got his majority and the command of the divisional machine-guns. After the Armistice he tried frantically to get home, but some complication or misunderstanding sent him to Oxford instead. He was worried now—there was a quality of nervous despair in Daisy’s letters. She didn’t see why he couldn’t come. She was feeling the pressure of the world outside, and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all.

    For Daisy was young and her artificial world was redolent of orchids and pleasant, cheerful snobbery and orchestras which set the rhythm of the year, summing up the sadness and suggestiveness of life in new tunes. All night the saxophones wailed the hopeless comment of the BEALE STREET BLUES. while a hundred pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled the shining dust. At the gray tea hour there were always rooms that throbbed incessantly with this low, sweet fever, while fresh faces drifted here and there like rose petals blown by the sad horns around the floor.

    That force took shape in the middle of spring with the arrival of Tom Buchanan. There was a wholesome bulkiness about his person and his position, and Daisy was flattered. Doubtless there was a certain struggle and a certain relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford.

    It was dawn now on Long Island and we went about opening the rest of the windows down-stairs, filling the house with gray-turning, gold-turning light. The shadow of a tree fell abruptly across the dew and ghostly birds began to sing among the blue leaves. There was a slow, pleasant movement in the air, scarcely a wind, promising a cool, lovely day.

    “I don’t think she ever loved him.” Gatsby turned around from a window and looked at me challengingly. “You must remember, old sport, she was very excited this afternoon. He told her those things in a way that frightened her—that made it look as if I was some kind of cheap sharper. And the result was she hardly knew what she was saying.”

    He sat down gloomily.

    “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?”

    Suddenly he came out with a curious remark.

    “In any case,” he said, “it was just personal.”

    What could you make of that, except to suspect some intensity in his conception of the affair that couldn’t be measured?

    He came back from France when Tom and Daisy were still on their wedding trip, and made a miserable but irresistible journey to Louisville on the last of his army pay. He stayed there a week, walking the streets where their footsteps had clicked together through the November night and revisiting the out-of-the-way places to which they had driven in her white car. Just as Daisy’s house had always seemed to him more mysterious and gay than other houses, so his idea of the city itself, even though she was gone from it, was pervaded with a melancholy beauty.

    He left feeling that if he had searched harder, he might have found her—that he was leaving her behind. The day-coach—he was penniless now—was hot. He went out to the open vestibule and sat down on a folding-chair, and the station slid away and the backs of unfamiliar buildings moved by. Then out into the spring fields, where a yellow trolley raced them for a minute with people in it who might once have seen the pale magic of her face along the casual street.

    The track curved and now it was going away from the sun, which as it sank lower, seemed to spread itself in benediction over the vanishing city where she had drawn her breath. He stretched out his hand desperately as if to snatch only a wisp of air, to save a fragment of the spot that she had made lovely for him. But it was all going by too fast now for his blurred eyes and he knew that he had lost that part of it, the freshest and the best, forever.

    It was nine o’clock when we finished breakfast and went out on the porch. The night had made a sharp difference in the weather and there was an autumn flavor in the air. The gardener, the last one of Gatsby’s former servants, came to the foot of the steps.

    “I’m going to drain the pool to-day, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s always trouble with the pipes.”

    I looked at my watch and stood up.

    “Twelve minutes to my train.”

    I didn’t want to go to the city. I wasn’t worth a decent stroke of work, but it was more than that—I didn’t want to leave Gatsby. I missed that train, and then another, before I could get myself away.

    “I’ll call you up,” I said finally.

    “Do, old sport.”

    “I’ll call you about noon.”

    We walked slowly down the steps.

    “I suppose Daisy’ll call too.” He looked at me anxiously, as if he hoped I’d corroborate this.

    “I suppose so.”

    “Well, good-by.”

    We shook hands and I started away. Just before I reached the hedge I remembered something and turned around.

    “They’re a rotten crowd,” I shouted across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

    I’ve always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him, because I disapproved of him from beginning to end. First he nodded politely, and then his face broke into that radiant and understanding smile, as if we’d been in ecstatic cahoots on that fact all the time. His gorgeous pink rag of a suit made a bright spot of color against the white steps, and I thought of the night when I first came to his ancestral home, three months before. The lawn and drive had been crowded with the faces of those who guessed at his corruption—and he had stood on those steps, concealing his incorruptible dream, as he waved them good-by.

    I thanked him for his hospitality. We were always thanking him for that—I and the others.

    “Good-by,” I called. “I enjoyed breakfast, Gatsby.”

    Up in the city, I tried for a while to list the quotations on an interminable amount of stock, then I fell asleep in my swivel-chair. Just before noon the phone woke me, and I started up with sweat breaking out on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker; she often called me up at this hour because the uncertainty of her own movements between hotels and clubs and private houses made her hard to find in any other way. Usually her voice came over the wire as something fresh and cool, as if a divot from a green golf-links had come sailing in at the office window, but this morning it seemed harsh and dry.

    “I’ve left Daisy’s house,” she said. “I’m at Hempstead, and I’m going down to Southampton this afternoon.”

    Probably it had been tactful to leave Daisy’s house, but the act annoyed me, and her next remark made me rigid.

    “You weren’t so nice to me last night.”

    “How could it have mattered then?”

    Silence for a moment. Then:

    “However—I want to see you.”

    “I want to see you, too.”

    “Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”

    “No—I don’t think this afternoon.”

    “Very well.”

    “It’s impossible this afternoon. Various——”

    We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.

    I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my time-table, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon.

    When I passed the ashheaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I suppose there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before.

    They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Some one, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body.

    Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and every one who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn.

    About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen.

    But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him.

    “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute and answer my question. How long have you been married?”

    “Twelve years.”

    “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?”

    The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet.

    “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?”

    “Don’t belong to any.”

    “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?”

    “That was a long time ago.”

    The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes.

    “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk.

    “Which drawer?”

    “That drawer—that one.”

    Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.

    “This?” he inquired, holding it up.

    Wilson stared and nodded.

    “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.”

    “You mean your wife bought it?”

    “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.”

    Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air.

    “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly.

    “Who did?”

    “I have a way of finding out.”

    “You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.”

    “He murdered her.”

    “It was an accident, George.”

    Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!”

    “I know,” he said definitely, “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.”

    Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car.

    “How could she of been like that?”

    “She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h——”

    He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand.

    “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?”

    This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light.

    Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ashheaps, where small gray clouds took on fantastic shape and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind.

    “I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window.”—with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it——” and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’”

    Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night.

    “God sees everything,” repeated Wilson.

    “That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight.


    At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if any one phoned word was to be brought to him at the pool. He stopped at the garage for a pneumatic mattress that had amused his guests during the summer, and the chauffeur helped him pump it up. Then he gave instructions that the open car wasn’t to be taken out under any circumstances—and this was strange, because the front right fender needed repair.

    Gatsby shouldered the mattress and started for the pool. Once he stopped and shifted it a little, and the chauffeur asked him if he needed help, but he shook his head and in a moment disappeared among the yellowing trees.

    No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o’clock—until long after there was any one to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about . . . like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.

    The chauffeur—he was one of Wolfsheim’s proteges—heard the shots—afterward he could only say that he hadn’t thought anything much about them. I drove from the station directly to Gatsby’s house and my rushing anxiously up the front steps was the first thing that alarmed any one. But they knew then, I firmly believe. With scarcely a word said, four of us, the chauffeur, butler, gardener, and I, hurried down to the pool.

    There was a faint, barely perceptible movement of the water as the fresh flow from one end urged its way toward the drain at the other. with little ripples that were hardly the shadows of waves, the laden mattress moved irregularly down the pool. A small gust of wind that scarcely corrugated the surface was enough to disturb its accidental course with its accidental burden. The touch of a cluster of leaves revolved it slowly, tracing, like the leg of compass, a thin red circle in the water.

    It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and the holocaust was complete.
    ][strike]Chapter 9

    After two years I remember the rest of that day, and that night and the next day, only as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspaper men in and out of Gatsby’s front door. A rope stretched across the main gate and a policeman by it kept out the curious, but little boys soon discovered that they could enter through my yard, and there were always a few of them clustered open-mouthed about the pool. Someone with a positive manner, perhaps a detective, used the expression “madman.” as he bent over Wilson’s body that afternoon, and the adventitious authority of his voice set the key for the newspaper reports next morning.

    Most of those reports were a nightmare—grotesque, circumstantial, eager, and untrue. When Michaelis’s testimony at the inquest brought to light Wilson’s suspicions of his wife I thought the whole tale would shortly be served up in racy pasquinade—but Catherine, who might have said anything, didn’t say a word. She showed a surprising amount of character about it too—looked at the coroner with determined eyes under that corrected brow of hers, and swore that her sister had never seen Gatsby, that her sister was completely happy with her husband, that her sister had been into no mischief whatever. She convinced herself of it, and cried into her handkerchief, as if the very suggestion was more than she could endure. So Wilson was reduced to a man “deranged by grief.” in order that the case might remain in its simplist form. And it rested there.

    I called up Daisy half an hour after we found him, called her instinctively and without hesitation. But she and Tom had gone away early that afternoon, and taken baggage with them.

    “Left no address?”

    “No.”

    “Say when they’d be back?”

    “No.”

    “Any idea where they are? How I could reach them?”

    “I don’t know. Can’t say.”

    I wanted to get somebody for him. I wanted to go into the room where he lay and reassure him: “I’ll get somebody for you, Gatsby. Don’t worry. Just trust me and I’ll get somebody for you——”

    Meyer Wolfsheim’s name wasn’t in the phone book. The butler gave me his office address on Broadway, and I called Information, but by the time I had the number it was long after five, and no one answered the phone.

    “Will you ring again?”

    “I’ve rung them three times.”

    “It’s very important.”

    “Sorry. I’m afraid no one’s there.”

    I went back to the drawing-room and thought for an instant that they were chance visitors, all these official people who suddenly filled it. But, as they drew back the sheet and looked at Gatsby with unmoved eyes, his protest continued in my brain:

    “Look here, old sport, you’ve got to get somebody for me. You’ve got to try hard. I can’t go through this alone.”

    Some one started to ask me questions, but I broke away and going up-stairs looked hastily through the unlocked parts of his desk—he’d never told me definitely that his parents were dead. But there was nothing—only the picture of Dan Cody, a token of forgotten violence, staring down from the wall.

    Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon—but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.

    DEAR MR. CARRAWAY. This has been one of the most terrible shocks of my life to me I hardly can believe it that it is true at all. Such a mad act as that man did should make us all think. I cannot come down now as I am tied up in some very important business and cannot get mixed up in this thing now. If there is anything I can do a little later let me know in a letter by Edgar. I hardly know where I am when I hear about a thing like this and am completely knocked down and out.

    Yours truly MEYER WOLFSHIEM

    and then hasty addenda beneath:

    Let me know about the funeral etc. do not know his family at all.

    When the phone rang that afternoon and Long Distance said Chicago was calling I thought this would be Daisy at last. But the connection came through as a man’s voice, very thin and far away.

    “This is Slagle speaking . . .”

    “Yes?” The name was unfamiliar.

    “Hell of a note, isn’t it? Get my wire?”

    “There haven’t been any wires.”

    “Young Parke’s in trouble,” he said rapidly. “They picked him up when he handed the bonds over the counter. They got a circular from New York giving ’em the numbers just five minutes before. What d’you know about that, hey? You never can tell in these hick towns——”

    “Hello!” I interrupted breathlessly. “Look here—this isn’t Mr. Gatsby. Mr. Gatsby’s dead.”

    There was a long silence on the other end of the wire, followed by an exclamation . . . then a quick squawk as the connection was broken.

    I think it was on the third day that a telegram signed Henry C. Gatz arrived from a town in Minnesota. It said only that the sender was leaving immediately and to postpone the funeral until he came.

    It was Gatsby’s father, a solemn old man, very helpless and dismayed, bundled up in a long cheap ulster against the warm September day. His eyes leaked continuously with excitement, and when I took the bag and umbrella from his hands he began to pull so incessantly at his sparse gray beard that I had difficulty in getting off his coat. He was on the point of collapse, so I took him into the music room and made him sit down while I sent for something to eat. But he wouldn’t eat, and the glass of milk spilled from his trembling hand.

    “I saw it in the Chicago newspaper,” he said. “It was all in the Chicago newspaper. I started right away.”

    “I didn’t know how to reach you.” His eyes, seeing nothing, moved ceaselessly about the room.

    “It was a madman,” he said. “He must have been mad.”

    “Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” I urged him.

    “I don’t want anything. I’m all right now, Mr.——”

    “Carraway.”

    “Well, I’m all right now. Where have they got Jimmy?” I took him into the drawing-room, where his son lay, and left him there. Some little boys had come up on the steps and were looking into the hall; when I told them who had arrived, they went reluctantly away.

    After a little while Mr. Gatz opened the door and came out, his mouth ajar, his face flushed slightly, his eyes leaking isolated and unpunctual tears. He had reached an age where death no longer has the quality of ghastly surprise, and when he looked around him now for the first time and saw the height and splendor of the hall and the great rooms opening out from it into other rooms, his grief began to be mixed with an awed pride. I helped him to a bedroom up-stairs; while he took off his coat and vest I told him that all arrangements had been deferred until he came.

    “I didn’t know what you’d want, Mr. Gatsby——”

    “Gatz is my name.”

    “—Mr. Gatz. I thought you might want to take the body West.”

    He shook his head.

    “Jimmy always liked it better down East. He rose up to his position in the East. Were you a friend of my boy’s, Mr.—?”

    “We were close friends.”

    “He had a big future before him, you know. He was only a young man, but he had a lot of brain power here.”

    He touched his head impressively, and I nodded.

    “If he’d of lived, he’d of been a great man. A man like James J. Hill. He’d of helped build up the country.”

    “That’s true,” I said, uncomfortably.

    He fumbled at the embroidered coverlet, trying to take it from the bed, and lay down stiffly—was instantly asleep.

    That night an obviously frightened person called up, and demanded to know who I was before he would give his name.

    “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said.

    “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find.

    “The funeral’s to-morrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.”

    “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.”

    His tone made me suspicious.

    “Of course you’ll be there yourself.”

    “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is——”

    “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?”

    “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them to-morrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my very best to get away.”

    I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously:

    “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. Iwonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.——”

    I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver.

    After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him.

    The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfsheim; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be any one inside. But when I’d shouted “hello.” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes.

    “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfsheim’s gone to Chicago.”

    The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside.

    “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.”

    “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?”

    At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfsheim’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door.

    “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”

    “But I know he’s there.”

    She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips.

    “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.”

    I mentioned Gatsby.

    “Oh—h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?”

    She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfsheim stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar.

    “My memory goes back to when I first met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he come into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘come on have some lunch with me,’ I sid. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.”

    “Did you start him in business?” I inquired.

    “Start him! I made him.”

    “Oh.”

    “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was an Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join up in the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything.”—he held up two bulbous fingers——” always together.”

    I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919.

    “Now he’s dead,” I said after a moment. “You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.”

    “I’d like to come.”

    “Well, come then.”

    The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears.

    “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said.

    “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.”

    “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.”

    I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up.

    “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly.

    For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand.

    “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.”

    When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me.

    “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.”

    It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself.

    “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.”

    “Very well. Had you seen him lately?”

    “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called HOPALONG CASSIDY.

    “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.”

    He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last fly-leaf was printed the word SCHEDULE, and the date September 12, 1906. and underneath:

    Rise from bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6.00 A.M. Dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling . . . . . . 6.15-6.30 ” Study electricity, etc . . . . . . . . . . . . 7.15-8.15 ” Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8.30-4.30 P.M. Baseball and sports . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.30-5.00 ” Practice elocution, poise and how to attain it 5.00-6.00 ” Study needed inventions . . . . . . . . . . . 7.00-9.00 ”

    GENERAL RESOLVES No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] No more smokeing or chewing Bath every other day Read one improving book or magazine per week Save $5.00 {crossed out} $3.00 per week Be better to parents

    “I come across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?”

    “It just shows you.”

    “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.”

    He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use.

    A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came.

    About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and I in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before.

    I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave.

    I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’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-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice.

    We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.

    “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked.

    “Neither could anybody else.”

    “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” 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 school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the 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 the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.

    That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

    Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares.

    After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home.

    There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair.

    She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the color of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say good-bye.

    “Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.”

    We shook hands.

    “Oh, and do you remember.”—she added——” a conversation we had once about driving a car?”

    “Why—not exactly.”

    “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”

    “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”

    She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

    One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewelry store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand.

    “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?”

    “Yes. You know what I think of you.”

    “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.”

    “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm.

    Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train.

    I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over.

    On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.

    Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.

    And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.

    Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——

    So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
    [/strike]

    [/spoiler]
  38. Skeptic1337 Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    Hey Uno can I get a PDF version of this when you're done.
  39. Ogsonofgroo Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?


    Really nao, just go to 'books online' for most of it, or all. Even better is go to 'audio books for the blind', some of the readers are not bad ;)

    :)
  40. Skeptic1337 Member

    Re: What is wrong with you, folks?

    taxi-driver-you-talkin-to-me-5000052.jpg

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