Chapter VIII

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 upstairs 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 strata 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 finger, 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.

Through this twilight universe Daisy began to move again with the season; suddenly she was again keeping half a dozen dates a day with half a dozen men, and drowsing asleep at dawn with the beads and chiffon of an evening dress tangled among dying orchids on the floor beside her bed. And all the time something within her was crying for a decision. She wanted her life shaped now, immediately—and the decision must be made by some force—of love, of money, of unquestion­able practicality—that was close at hand.

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 downstairs, 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 the 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 today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves’ll start falling pretty soon, and then there’s al­ways trouble with the pipes.”

“Don’t do it today,” Gatsby answered. He turned to me apologetically. “You know, old sport, I’ve never used that pool all summer?”

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 supposed 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. Someone, 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 everyone 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 shapes 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.

* * *

By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone.

His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he dis­appeared from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he “had a way of find­ing out,” supposed that he spent that time going from garage to garage thereabouts, inquiring for a yellow car. On the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name.

* * *

At two o’clock Gatsby put on his bathing-suit and left word with the butler that if anyone 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 anyone 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 Wolfshiem’s protégés —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 anyone. 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 a 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.


  1. The adjective “pneumatic” describes something that is filled with or operated by pressured gas or air. Gatsby’s mattress is inflatable, a type of pool toy that is still common.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  2. The unsettling image of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg vigilantly gazing across the valley of ashes returns. Recall that the symbol of the faded billboard carries multiple meanings throughout the text, and that different characters have their own relationships with (and project their own beliefs onto) the billboard. For Wilson, the eyes represent a watchful God who judges the immoral. Michaelis’s reminder of the billboard’s purpose points to one of the major themes of the text: the replacement of spirituality by commercialism. In Gatsby, this exchange results in dissatisfaction, loneliness, and a lack of moral substance; it is also endemic to the populations of East and West Egg.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  3. Wilson is convinced that Myrtle’s lover murdered her, even though Michaelis has insisted that her death was a tragic accident. Regardless, murder seems plausible to Wilson, perhaps in part because he recalls Myrtle returning home from New York with a bruised face and a swollen nose—presumably he is referring to her visit to the city with Tom and Nick. For Wilson, this memory links the ideas of Myrtle’s lover and violence, though Michaelis’s recollections seem to imply that Wilson himself was guilty of similar violence toward Myrtle on her final day.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  4. This is a significant moment, for Gatsby has never before indulged in the hospitality he extended to his guests. The image of him alone in the pool, surrounded by “the yellowing trees,” marks a change in his relationship to his projected identity and the end of a phase of his life.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  5. The theme of reality versus fantasy is engaged in two ways as Nick imagines Gatsby lying in the pool, awaiting a call from Daisy that he no longer believes will come. First, there is Gatsby’s disillusionment: Nick reasons Gatsby must have felt exiled from the world in which he’d spent a lifetime trying to situate himself. The loss of the “old warm world” mirrors the yellow leaves that signal a dying summer. Thus, Gatsby’s fantasies fade away, leaving behind the chilly reality that his pursuit of greatness and wealth has been unimaginably costly.

    Second, there is the fact that Gatsby’s disillusionment is actually Nick’s fantasy of how the afternoon played out. It can’t be known what Gatsby was thinking or feeling. The narrative Nick offers is more indicative of his own disillusionment than of anything that can be definitively tied to Gatsby, who was, when Nick left him, still expecting Daisy’s call.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  6. Gatsby’s “single dream” is not simply his obsessive pursuit of Daisy, nor is it his misguided desire to resurrect the romance of their past through his money and power. His childhood dream of escaping his circumstances and joining the upper echelons of American society that he believes to be his destiny and birthright has been his sole, costly purpose in life. Nick imagines that his last moments are spent realizing the “high price” of this pursuit, and perhaps feeling afraid of the “new world, material without being real,” that he must now navigate. However, Nick leaves it unclear whether he imagines Gatsby to regret his choice to live with this “single dream.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  7. Nick here is acknowledging a distinction between the physical reality of the world and the deeper reality of a world imbued with meaning. Without an interpretive lens to give the things around him beauty or worth, Gatsby is confronted by a “grotesque” rose and “raw” sunlight. He has never had to navigate the world without having dreams through which to filter everything, and Nick imagines him frightened and dismayed by material reality.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  8. The noun “holocaust” can refer to either mass slaughter or to a sacrifice in which the offering is burned completely. The word stems from the Greek holokauston, which means “burnt whole.” Fitzgerald wrote The Great Gatsby before World War II, so he does not allude to the Holocaust that modern readers would likely think of. He compares Wilson’s and Gatsby’s deaths to a sacrifice, possibly to suggest that their tragedy is in fact a ritual that upholds the rich and powerful.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  9. Nick has abruptly begun to separate himself from the “rotten crowd,” though he continues to evade any accountability for his inclusion in that crowd over the summer. It is probable, however, that he genuinely views them differently after spending the morning with Gatsby.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  10. Calling Gatsby’s relatively new mansion his “ancestral home” sounds ironic, but recall the story of the brewer who built the house, which Nick relates in chapter 5. In many ways, that brewer was like Gatsby: an outsider with high aspirations, doomed to failure by socioeconomic circumstances beyond his control. (In the brewer’s case, the impending onset of Prohibition would have spelled the end of his prosperity, assuming he hadn’t died before it began.) Nick’s description acknowledges Gatsby’s rejection of his family and instead places him in a tradition of heartbroken social climbers, implying both the inevitability of the attempt and the inevitability of its failure.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  11. Though the color pink is often used to represent romantic love, its contrast against the whiteness of Gatsby’s steps introduces an ambivalent tone—especially when readers recall the feeling of apprehension that led Nick to visit Gatsby in the first place. Given that whiteness is often used to symbolize purity, the “bright spot of color against the white” implies corruption. Therefore, the image of Gatsby’s bright suit against white could indicate that Gatsby’s corruption is complete, or will culminate in bloodshed.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  12. Nick believes that, despite his flaws, Gatsby possesses something unique and genuinely authentic, perhaps because of his idealism and capacity for hope. Interestingly, Nick’s compliment is still rooted in monetary language: Gatsby is “worth” an entire group of extremely wealthy people “put together,” as though people’s intrinsic value can be quantified. Also interesting is the fact that in this moment, Nick does not identify himself as a member of “the whole damn bunch.” This may mark a turning point for Nick, whose apparent dislike for the Buchanans (and especially Tom) has, until now, been at odds with his described behavior.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  13. Gatsby’s inability to reconcile himself with his past can be interpreted as an unwillingness to relinquish control. Throughout the narrative, multiple instances show Gatsby as being comfortable only when he feels he is able to control a situation, either through money or manipulation. Part of the fascination Daisy holds for Gatsby appears to stem from his being unable to control her—when he thought he’d “taken” her, she didn’t react as he expected, and it wrongfooted him into wanting to prove himself to her. Here, Gatsby is once again unable to accept the fact that Daisy’s behavior is beyond his control. He cannot escape the feeling that, just like his other goals, he will be able to attain Daisy as a prize for hard and focused work.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  14. Gatsby’s perception of the city develops two important themes in the novel: the past versus the present and idealism versus reality. His fantasy of resurrecting the past appears to begin when he makes his sorrowful return to Louisville to reminisce about his romance with Daisy, and her former presence in the city imbues it with an idealized, “melancholy beauty” for Gatsby.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  15. Orchids have appeared before, both times attached to a figure of luxury or prestige at one of Gatsby’s lavish parties. That Daisy’s privileged, “artificial world” is “redolent of orchids” suggests that orchids represent wealth and decadence. However, the dying orchids beside Daisy’s bed after she returns home from nights out with other men associate this symbol with an image of fragility and decay.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  16. The adjective “redolent” usually means to be suggestive of something, though it can also describe something that is fragrant or aromatic. Here, Nick seems to apply a double meaning: Daisy’s “artificial,” high-class world is “redolent of orchids,” which can have a very strong fragrance, “and pleasant, cheerful snobbery.”

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  17. The Meuse–Argonne Offensive (September 26–November 11, 1918) was one of the final military operations of World War I. More than 1 million American soldiers fought and approximately 26,000 died, making it the second deadliest military operation in American history. After 47 days, the battles ended with the signing of the Armistice of 11 November 1918, which ended the war between the Allies and Germany. Gatsby described his experience at Argonne in chapter 4.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  18. The social class that Gatsby aspires to relies on economic inequality to sustain its wealth. Gatsby, along with the people of both Eggs, witnesses the suffering of the poor in the valley of ashes every time he drives to New York City. Nevertheless, none of them ever truly confront the grim cost of their privilege. Gatsby’s dream of class ascension is dependent on the maintenance of this system, and therefore, the suffering it causes.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  19. Nick’s narration of Gatsby’s story continues to portray Daisy as an icon of value instead of a person. “Gleaming like silver,” she herself embodies “the youth and mystery that wealth imprisons and preserves.” This almost-inhuman image of Daisy is framed as a natural—and desirable—result of her wealth, and largely explains the failure of the “safe and proud” upper class to recognize the “hot struggles of the poor” that make their privilege possible.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  20. Nick alludes to the cup called the Holy Grail, which is often synonymous with the Holy Chalice. According to Christian tradition, the Holy Chalice is the cup from which Jesus Christ served wine during the Last Supper (Matthew 28:27-28) before he was crucified. He is also believed to have drank from the cup himself. The Holy Grail originates as an elusive quest object in Arthurian literature, in which it came to be attainable only by the spiritually pure. In saying that Gatsby had “committed himself to the following of a grail,” Nick indicates that his ambition was both idealistic and unlikely to be successful. However, he also indicates a shift in how Gatsby has perceived Daisy. Despite Gatsby’s feeling of having “taken” her, she “vanished...into her rich, full life.” This act of agency and independence on her part unsettled Gatsby. While he still saw her as an object, she was now a powerful object, imbued with spiritual significance as well as material value, of which he felt compelled to prove himself worthy.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  21. Nick means that Gatsby did not have the right to be with Daisy because he had no money or status. Gatsby therefore “took Daisy”—whatever that might imply—as one might steal a coveted object. Further, he did so specifically because of his deception: his behavior toward Daisy is contextualized as “making the most of his time” while the illusion of status offered by his army rank still holds.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  22. Nick’s recounting of Gatsby’s story frames Gatsby’s interest in Daisy as a preoccupation with a valuable commodity. The existence of other suitors “increased her value” to Gatsby, just as a market’s interest can drive up the demand and price of a product or stock. Gatsby’s appreciation of Daisy as a commodity as opposed to a real person is yet another example of the corrupting consequences of his aspirations: his desire projects onto Daisy’s home imagined potential it may not actually possess, and it dehumanizes Daisy herself.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  23. It is unclear whether Nick refers to Gatsby’s contact with other women of Daisy’s class or with other upper-class people in general. At this point in Gatsby’s life, he was penniless, which would have created a social barrier between himself and a woman like Daisy. Moreover, Gatsby’s idealism and beliefs about his destiny have prevented him from sharing intimacy with women before this point, as Nick has already revealed. This “indiscernible barbed wire” may in fact be Gatsby’s ambition, which has prevented him from becoming genuinely attached. Either way, Gatsby’s status as an army officer has overcome the class barrier that otherwise would have kept him out of Daisy’s circle.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  24. Nick interprets Gatsby’s willingness to confide in him about the past as evidence that his persona has shattered “like glass” under Tom’s attack. The specific simile emphasizes the fragile nature of the “long secret extravaganza” Gatsby carried on for so long. Its breaking implies that the “new money” class cannot truly stand alongside the wealth of families like the Buchanans. The American dream, therefore, is untenable.

    — Owl Eyes Editors
  25. Fitzgerald begins to openly foreshadow Gatsby’s fate with the incessant “groaning” of the fog horn that keeps Nick from sleeping. The disturbance seems to have either triggered or accompanied a change of heart in Nick, who described himself disliking Gatsby intensely when they spoke about Myrtle’s death in the previous chapter.

    — Owl Eyes Editors