The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said.

The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials 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.

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.

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.

Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.

I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.

This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

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’m p-paralysed with happiness.”

—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.