This chapter introduces the narrator, Nick Carraway, as he moves East to the affluent Long Island area in the summer of 1922, setting the stage for his encounters with the wealthy elite and the enigmatic Gatsby. It explores themes of judgment, social class, and the superficiality of the wealthy.
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You're listening to a modern retelling of The Great Gatsby, by Book Wave Studios.
Chapter 1 When I was younger-and more easily shaped
by the world-my father once gave me a piece of advice that's stuck with me ever since. He said,
"Whenever you feel like criticizing someone, just remember that not everyone's had the same
advantages you've had." He left it at that, but the way he said it carried more weight than the
words alone. We've always had this quiet, unspoken way of communicating in my family, so I got the
message: Be slow to judge. That mindset opened a lot of doors. People would tell me things-deep,
personal things-without me asking. Sometimes I welcomed it; other times I pretended to be asleep
or busy just to avoid yet another confession. There's something about a person who listens
without judgment-it draws out the secrets people usually keep buried. I learned that most young
men's deepest thoughts weren't as original as they thought-usually a mix of borrowed lines and
carefully edited truths. But still, I held onto my father's advice. Reserving judgment, after all,
is an act of hope. Even now, I remind myself that decency isn't handed out evenly at birth. Still,
my tolerance has limits. You can build your life on solid ground or on a swamp-it doesn't matter
to me, but eventually I get tired of watching people pretend it's all the same. After I came
back from the East last fall, I wanted the world to tighten up, to stand at moral attention and
stop spinning. I didn't want any more chaotic glimpses into people's messy hearts. Only Gatsby
was exempt from that fatigue. Gatsby-whose name titles this story-stood for everything I usually
sneer at. But there was something about him, something luminous and full of life,
like he was tuned into signals from far away-like one of those delicate instruments that registers
earthquakes halfway across the globe. It wasn't the shallow sensitivity people praise as
"artistic." It was more like an extraordinary capacity for hope-a romantic boldness
I've never seen before and probably never will again. Gatsby turned out just fine. It was the
things that clung to him-the dark residue left by his dreams-that soured my view of the restless
tragedies and fleeting joys of other men. My family has been established in a prosperous
Midwestern city for generations. The Carraways are an old clan, and there's a family story that we
descend from Scottish nobility, though in reality it was my great-uncle who founded our line-he
came here in 1851, paid someone to take his place in the Civil War, and built the hardware business
my father now runs. I never met him, but people say I look like the stern-faced portrait of him
in my dad's office. I graduated from Yale in 1915, a quarter-century after my father,
and not long after I joined the late-arriving wave of Americans in the Great War. I actually
enjoyed the chaos of war more than I should have, and when I came back, I was restless. The Midwest,
once the center of everything for me, felt like the edge of nowhere. So I went East to learn the
bond business. Everyone I knew was getting into it, and I figured it could handle one
more ambitious young man. My relatives talked it over like I was choosing a private school,
finally agreeing with cautious nods. My father agreed to fund me for a year. After a few delays,
I moved East for good in the spring of 1922. It made sense to live in the city, but I'd just
left a world of open lawns and friendly trees, and summer was coming. So when a guy at work
suggested we rent a house out in the suburbs, I jumped at it. He found a place-a weathered,
shabby little bungalow for $80 a month-but before we could move in, he got transferred
to Washington. I took the place alone. I had a dog for about a week before he ran off, an old
Dodge for getting around, and a Finnish woman who cooked breakfast, made my bed, and muttered
strange proverbs to herself over the stove. It was quiet for a few days until one morning a
lost newcomer stopped me on the road to ask for directions. I pointed him to West Egg village,
and suddenly I didn't feel like a stranger anymore. I was the guy who knew his way around.
And so, with the sun rising and leaves bursting out like fast-forwarded film, I felt that old,
familiar feeling-that life was starting fresh again with the summer. I had books to read,
a whole season of air to breathe in and make me strong again. I bought a stack of books on
finance and investing, all gleaming red and gold on my shelf like newly minted coins,
promising to reveal the secrets of men like Midas and Morgan. I planned to read other things too. I
had been a bit of a literary guy in college-wrote a series of overly serious editorials for the
Yale News-and I wanted to reclaim that side of myself, to become, ironically, that narrowest
kind of expert: a "well-rounded man." It's not just a cliché-sometimes life really is better
understood through one window at a time. By chance, I rented a house in one of the
strangest places in America. Long Island juts eastward from New York and features two oddly
shaped landmasses-massive twin ovals sticking into the water, separated only by a shallow bay.
They look almost identical from above, but on the ground they couldn't be more different. I lived in
West Egg-the less elegant of the two-though that barely scratches the surface of the contrast. My
place sat at the very tip of the peninsula, just fifty yards from the Sound, wedged between two
enormous estates. To my right was a sprawling imitation of a French town hall, complete with
a tower, a fresh layer of ivy, a marble pool, and over forty acres of manicured grounds. That was
Gatsby's house-or at least, I would later learn it belonged to a man named Gatsby. My house was
a dump by comparison-a small, ugly thing-but it had a view of the water, a peek at Gatsby's lawn,
and proximity to wealth, all for $80 a month. Across the bay were the dazzling white mansions
of East Egg, home to the old-money elite. The story of that summer really begins when
I drove over there for dinner with Tom and Daisy Buchanan. Daisy was my second cousin once removed,
and I knew Tom from college. I had visited them once in Chicago after the war. Tom had
been a football star back then-one of those men who peak at twenty-one and spend the rest
of their lives chasing the ghost of their own glory. His family was filthy rich, and even at
Yale his careless spending raised eyebrows. Now he'd brought that same boldness East,
arriving with a whole stable of polo ponies, like he was trying to outdo himself again.
Why they moved East, I'm not sure. They'd spent a year in France for no real reason, then drifted
from one rich crowd to another. Daisy said this was a permanent move, but I didn't buy it.
I didn't know what was in her heart, but I had a feeling Tom would always be looking
for the lost thrill of some long-gone game. So on a warm, breezy evening, I went to see two
old friends I barely knew anymore. Their house was even grander than I expected-a red and white
Georgian mansion with a lawn that stretched from the bay to the front door, leaping over
sundials and flowerbeds, finally climbing up the walls in a curtain of ivy. The front was
lined with French windows, glowing in the evening light. Tom stood on the porch in riding clothes,
legs spread wide like he owned the place. He looked different from college-sturdier,
more solid, with an arrogant face and a tough mouth. His pale eyes glinted with
something aggressive, like he was always leaning toward confrontation. His body was massive,
coiled with energy, and even his fancy clothes couldn't hide the raw force underneath. He
looked like someone built to crush things. His voice was rough and impatient, like he was
always on the verge of barking an order. Even when he liked you, he sounded condescending-like
he expected you to know he was better than you. We were in the same senior society, and
while we were never close, I always felt like he wanted my approval in some odd, defensive way.
We chatted on the porch for a few minutes. "Nice place, huh?" he said, eyes twitching restlessly.
He turned me around with one hand, gesturing across the estate-the gardens, the roses,
the motorboat bobbing in the water. "It used to belong to Demaine, the oil guy." Then
he spun me back again. "Let's go in." Inside, the hallway opened into a large,
rose-tinted room that felt like it was barely attached to the house,
held in place by open French windows at either end. The breeze flowed through,
lifting the curtains like flags and stirring the rug as if it were water.
Everything moved-except the couch, where two young women lounged like they'd
floated in on the wind and landed there. Both wore white, their dresses fluttering in
the breeze like they might take off again at any second. I stood there for a moment,
soaking it in-the sound of the curtains snapping, a painting groaning on the wall. Then Tom slammed
the windows shut, and the room settled. The girls slowly drifted down with the silence.
The one on the far end was a stranger, lying perfectly still with her chin
tilted like she was balancing something fragile. She didn't acknowledge me at all,
and for a second I felt like I was intruding. The other girl was Daisy. She leaned forward like she
might stand, then gave up and laughed-a soft, irresistible laugh that made me smile too.
"I'm absolutely paralyzed with happiness," she said, and laughed again as if she'd said
something wildly clever. She held my hand warmly and looked into my face like there
was no one else in the world she'd rather see. That was her way. She whispered that
the other girl was named Baker. (People used to say Daisy's whisper made people lean in to hear
her-it didn't make her any less enchanting.) Miss Baker's lips twitched in a polite nod,
then she quickly looked away again, like whatever she'd been balancing nearly toppled. I almost
apologized again-it's hard not to be impressed by someone who seems so entirely self-contained.
Daisy asked me about my trip in that low, magnetic voice of hers. Her voice pulled you in-it had this
rhythm, like a melody you'd never hear the same way twice. Her face was sad and beautiful, her
eyes bright, her mouth vivid, and the excitement in her voice made you feel like something amazing
had just happened or was about to. I told her I'd passed through Chicago
on my way East, and that a dozen people had sent their love.
"Do they miss me?" she asked, thrilled. "The whole city's in mourning. Every car
has a black-rimmed wheel, and people wail along the shore all night."
"How fabulous! Let's go back, Tom-tomorrow!" Then suddenly: "You have to see the baby."
"I'd love to." "She's asleep. She's three.
Have you ever met her?" "Never."
"Well, you should. She's-" But she didn't finish.
Tom, who'd been pacing, stopped and clamped a hand on my shoulder.
"What are you up to, Nick?" "I'm in the bond business."
"Who with?" I told him.
"Never heard of them," he said flatly. That rubbed me the wrong way.
"You will," I replied. "You will if you stick around the East."
"Oh, I'm not going anywhere," he said, eyeing Daisy and then me,
like he was waiting for something to happen. "I'd be a damn fool to live anywhere else."
Right then, Miss Baker suddenly said, "Absolutely!" It startled me-it was the
first thing she'd said. She seemed surprised by it too and stood up with a stretch.
"I'm stiff," she said. "I've been lying on that couch for as long as I can remember."
"Don't look at me," Daisy said. "I've been trying to get you to New York all afternoon."
"No thanks," Miss Baker replied to the tray of cocktails arriving from the pantry. "I'm
in training." Tom stared at her
like she'd just spoken Martian. "You are?" He downed his drink in one
gulp. "How do you ever get anything done?" I studied Miss Baker, wondering what exactly
she did get done. She was slim, small-chested, with perfect posture-her shoulders pulled back
like a cadet's. Her sun-faded gray eyes met mine politely, curiously,
from a face that was both weary and lovely. I felt like I'd seen her before-maybe
in real life, maybe in a photograph. "You live in West Egg," she said with a hint
of disdain. "I know someone over there." "I don't know anyone-"
"You must know Gatsby." "Gatsby?" Daisy repeated,
suddenly interested. "What Gatsby?" Before I could explain he was my neighbor,
dinner was announced. Tom didn't give me a chance to speak-he hooked his arm through
mine and led me from the room like I was just another piece on a game board he was moving.
The two women drifted ahead of us, hands on their hips, their movements graceful and
relaxed as we stepped out onto a porch glowing in the pink light of sunset. A soft wind danced
around four flickering candles on the table. "Why candles?" Daisy said, frowning. She reached
out and pinched them out. "In two weeks it'll be the longest day of the year." She looked at
us all, beaming. "Do you always plan to notice it and then forget? I do that every year."
"We should do something," Jordan said with a yawn, settling into her seat
like she was slipping into bed. "Okay," Daisy said. "What should we
plan?" She looked to me as if I had the answer. "What do people plan?"
Before I could answer, her eyes landed on her little finger. "Look!" she said,
holding it up. "It's bruised." We all leaned in. Her knuckle was blue.
"You did that, Tom," she accused him. "I know you didn't mean to,
but you did. That's what I get for marrying a brute of a man. A great big hulking physical-"
"I hate that word 'hulking,'" Tom snapped. "Even as a joke."
"Hulking," she repeated with a sweet stubbornness.
Sometimes Daisy and Jordan talked over each other, not in a noisy way, but like they didn't mind if
no one followed along. It was as effortless and impersonal as their white dresses and cool gazes.
They were just there-accepting us, not really needing us. They didn't expect much from the
evening and gave about as much back. It felt so different from the Midwest, where every evening
seemed either too fast or too tense, always racing toward some invisible finish line.
"You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy," I said, a few glasses into a surprisingly good claret.
"Can't we talk about crops or something?" It was meant as a joke, but Tom seized on it.
"Civilization's falling apart," he barked. "I've become a complete pessimist. Have you read The
Rise of the Colored Empires by Goddard?" "No," I said, caught off guard by his
intensity. "It's a great
book. Everyone should read it. Basically, if we're not careful, the white race is going to
be overrun. It's science. It's proven." Daisy looked over with a detached sadness.
"Tom's reading these deep, important books with big words," she said,
almost to herself. "What was that word we-" "They're scientific," Tom interrupted. "This guy's
worked it all out. It's up to us-people like us-to keep control before it's too late."
"We have to stop them," Daisy said with a playful wink toward the sun.
"You should live in California," Jordan started, but Tom shifted in his seat and cut her off.
"The point is, we're Nordics. You, me, you," he pointed around the table,
pausing slightly before nodding toward Daisy. "We built civilization-science, art, all of it."
He seemed so invested, so desperate for this idea to mean something. Just then the phone
rang inside, and the butler stepped away to answer it. Daisy seized the break and leaned toward me,
her voice suddenly light and excited. "Want to hear a family secret?
It's about the butler's nose." "That's exactly why I came tonight."
"Well, he wasn't always a butler. He used to polish silver for a family in New
York-two hundred pieces of it. Morning to night, day after day, until it ruined his nose-"
"Then it got worse," Jordan added. "Yes," Daisy nodded, amused. "Worse
and worse, until he had to quit." For a moment, the last bit of sunshine
lit up her face and made it glow. Her voice pulled me in like a song. Then the light faded, the mood
dissolved, and she dimmed along with it. The butler came back and whispered to Tom,
who stood up, frowning, and left the table without a word. As soon as he was gone,
Daisy came alive again, leaning toward me with that same radiance.
"I love having you here, Nick. You remind me of a rose. Doesn't he?"
she asked Jordan. "A rose, right?" It wasn't true. I look nothing like a
rose. But her words came with such warmth, like her heart was reaching out through them. Then,
just as quickly, she threw her napkin down and excused herself.
Jordan and I shared a brief glance, neither of us sure what to say. Just as I was about to speak,
she sat up suddenly and whispered, "Shhh." From inside came the low murmur of voices. Jordan
leaned in, listening without shame. The voices rose, fell, rose again-and then silence.
"That Gatsby I mentioned earlier? He's my neighbor-" I started.
"Don't talk," she whispered. "I want to hear." "Is something happening?" I asked, confused.
"You mean you don't know?" She was genuinely surprised. "I thought everyone knew."
"Knew what?" She hesitated. "Tom's got a woman in New York."
"A woman?" I repeated. She nodded. "She could at least wait until
after dinner to call, don't you think?" Before I could process that,
Tom and Daisy reappeared. "It couldn't be helped!" Daisy
said with strained cheer. She sat down, glancing at Jordan and then at me. "I just
stepped outside for a minute. It's so romantic out there. There's a bird on the lawn-I swear it
must be a nightingale, just arrived on the Cunard Line. Singing his heart out." She sang the words:
"Isn't it romantic, Tom?" "Very romantic," he said flatly,
then turned to me. "If it's light enough after dinner, I'll show you the stables."
Just then the phone rang again. Daisy shook her head sharply, and any talk of stables-or
anything else-died on the spot. Someone lit the candles again, though it seemed pointless now.
I found myself wanting to look each person in the eye, but also wanting to avoid their
gaze completely. I didn't know what Tom or Daisy were thinking, but even Jordan,
who seemed pretty immune to awkwardness, couldn't fully shake the tension. To some,
this might have seemed like high drama. I just wanted to call the cops and get it over with.
The stables were never mentioned again. Tom and Jordan strolled off into the library,
leaving a trail of silence behind them. I followed Daisy around the house to the front porch.
In the dimness we sat on a wicker bench. She put her face in her hands like she was trying
to feel its shape. Her eyes drifted out into the evening. She looked troubled.
"So," I said gently, "tell me about your little girl."
"We don't know each other very well, Nick," she said suddenly. "Even if we're cousins. You
didn't come to my wedding." "I was still overseas."
"That's right." She paused. "Well, I've had a rough time, Nick. I'm pretty cynical
about everything now." She didn't explain further,
and I didn't press her. "Your daughter-she talks?
Eats? All that?" I asked weakly. "Oh yes." Her eyes were far away. "Want to know
what I said when she was born?" "Sure."
"She was just an hour old. Tom was off somewhere-who knows where. I came to,
still groggy from the anesthesia, and the nurse told me it was a girl. I turned away and cried.
Then I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. I hope she'll be a fool. That's the best thing a girl can be
in this world-a beautiful little fool.'"
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