File Name: scott f fitzgerald the great gatsby book.zip
The Great Gatsby 5 of additional experience. Teacher Support Programme. The Great Gatsby, published in , pictures the wasted American Dream as it depicts the s, a period in America The Great Gatsby By F. Scott Fitzgerald Suggestions and Expectations This curriculum unit can be used in a variety of ways.
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.
The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions.
Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth. And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don't care what it's founded on.
When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart.
Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away.
This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the "creative temperament"—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we're descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather's brother who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle but I'm supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father's office.
I graduated from New Haven in , just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man.
All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, "Why—ye-es" with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two. The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea.
He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone.
I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read for one thing and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew.
And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News"—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man. It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America.
It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western Hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound.
They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size. I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season.
It was Gatsby's mansion. Or rather, as I didn't know Mr. Gatsby it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eye-sore, but it was a small eye-sore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor's lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed and I'd known Tom in college.
And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago. Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax.
His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he'd left Chicago and come east in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance he'd brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest.
It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that. Why they came east I don't know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.
This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn't believe it—I had no sight into Daisy's heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game. And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red and white Georgian Colonial mansion overlooking the bay.
The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run.
The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold, and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy, straw haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner.
Two shining, arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat.
It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body. His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
Turning me around by one arm he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses and a snub-nosed motor boat that bumped the tide off shore. We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house.
A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding cake of the ceiling—and then rippled over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless and with her chin raised a little as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room. She laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see.
That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. I've heard it said that Daisy's murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.
At any rate Miss Baker's lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright.
Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me. I looked back at my cousin who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice.
It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth—but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way east and how a dozen people had sent their love through me. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath and there's a persistent wail all night along the North Shore. Let's go back, Tom. Tom Buchanan who had been hovering restlessly about the room stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
At this point Miss Baker said "Absolutely! Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room. I looked at Miss Baker wondering what it was she "got done. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet.
Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
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Different file types allow different capabilities. For example, you can download pdf files. However, the Scholar Annotation tool will not work with pdfs but will for html and some electronic books. Gatsby Call : Series: Major literary characters Published Series: Modern critical interpretations Published
Host the file. It needs to have a save function as well. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where Three O'Clock in the Morning , a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. Drive-in cinema. Whitley makes a comprehensive case for Gatsby as a Keatsian Romancer F. Few interpretations are as thoroughly interesting though misguided. Connect your Kindle device with your computer using a USB cable.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD THE GREAT GATSBY. Y. O. U. N. G. A. D. U. LT. E. LI R. E. A ______. 6 “ read one improving book or magazine a week ” ______.
FP now includes eBooks in its collection. Book Details. The story primarily concerns the young and mysterious millionaire Jay Gatsby and his quixotic passion and obsession with the beautiful former debutante Daisy Buchanan. Limit the size to characters.
Jay Gatsby is the man who has everything. But one thing will always be out of his reach Everybody who is anybody is seen at his glittering parties.
He uses a variety of devices to symbolize something much more intricate. Understand how the book is put together by looking at its genre, narrator, and setting. Free eBooks at Planet eBook. Why or why not?
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
Наша машина обеспечивает информацией ФБР, ЦРУ, Агентство по борьбе с наркотиками - всем им теперь придется действовать вслепую. Не удастся отслеживать перемещение грузов наркокартелей, крупные корпорации смогут переводить деньги, не оставляя никакого следа и держа Налоговое управление в полном неведении, террористы будут в полной тайне готовить свои акции. Результатом будет полнейший хаос. - А Фонд электронных границ будет праздновать победу, - побледнела Сьюзан. - Фонд понятия не имеет о том, чем мы тут занимаемся, - презрительно бросил Стратмор. - Если бы они знали, сколько террористических нападений мы предотвратили благодаря тому, что можем взламывать шифры, они запели бы по-другому. Сьюзан была согласна с этим, но в то же время прекрасно понимала: Фонд электронных границ никогда не узнает, насколько важен и нужен ТРАНСТЕКСТ.
Стратмор кивнул: - Думал. Но решил этого не делать. Сьюзан так и подумала. Старшие должностные лица АНБ имели право разбираться со своими кризисными ситуациями, не уведомляя об этом исполнительную власть страны. АНБ было единственной разведывательной организацией США, освобожденной от обязанности отчитываться перед федеральным правительством. Стратмор нередко пользовался этой привилегией: он предпочитал творить свое волшебство в уединении.
Сьюзан кричала и молотила руками в тщетной попытке высвободиться, а он все тащил ее, и пряжка его брючного ремня больно вдавливалась ей в спину. Хейл был необычайно силен. Когда он проволок ее по ковру, с ее ног соскочили туфли.
У этого парня была виза третьего класса. По ней он мог жить здесь многие годы. Беккер дотронулся до руки погибшего авторучкой. - Может быть, он и жил. - Вовсе .
Ясно, конечно, что это никакой не полицейский, это Клиент с большой буквы. - Дайте мне угадать: наш номер вам дал приятель. Сказал, чтобы вы обязательно нам позвонили. Я прав. Сеньор Ролдан уловил некоторое замешательство на другом конце провода.
- Докладывайте. В задней части комнаты Сьюзан Флетчер отчаянно пыталась совладать с охватившим ее чувством невыносимого одиночества. Она тихо плакала, закрыв. В ушах у нее раздавался непрекращающийся звон, а все тело словно онемело.
ТРАНСТЕКСТ стонал, его корпус готов был вот-вот рухнуть. Голос Дэвида точно вел ее, управляя ее действиями. Она бросилась к лестнице и начала подниматься к кабинету Стратмора. За ее спиной ТРАНСТЕКСТ издал предсмертный оглушающий стон. Когда распался последний силиконовый чип, громадная раскаленная лава вырвалась наружу, пробив верхнюю крышку и выбросив на двадцать метров вверх тучу керамических осколков, и в то же мгновение насыщенный кислородом воздух шифровалки втянуло в образовавшийся вакуум.
В конце концов пришлось смирить гордыню и вызвать тебя. Сьюзан это позабавило. Стратмор был блестящими программистом-криптографом, но его диапазон был ограничен работой с алгоритмами и тонкости этой не столь уж изощренной и устаревшей технологии программирования часто от него ускользали. К тому же Сьюзан написала свой маячок на новом гибридном языке, именуемом LIMBO, поэтому не приходилось удивляться, что Стратмор с ним не справился. - Я возьму это на себя, - улыбнулась она, вставая.
Левый угол пуст. Следуя плану, он бросился в проход и, оказавшись внутри, лицом к правому углу, выстрелил. Пуля отскочила от голой стены и чуть не попала в него .
Можете оставить свое имя и адрес - наверняка мистер Густафсон захочет вас поблагодарить. - Прекрасная мысль. Альфонсо Тринадцатый.
- Хейл вроде бы затрубил отбой. - Теперь это не имеет значения. У вас есть ТРАНСТЕКСТ. У вас есть возможность мгновенно получать информацию. Вы можете читать все, что пожелаете, - без всяких вопросов и запросов.
Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald (September 24, – Decem- ber 21, ) was an American Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt. 4.