The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald, ePUBPDFMOBI George Orwell. Get your free eBook now! Great Expectations Charles Dickens. Get your. The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald. This web edition published by [email protected] Adelaide. Last updated Wednesday, December 17, at To the best of . The Great Gatsby is a novel by the American author F. Scott Fitzgerald. Nick Carraway having graduated from Yale and fought in World War I, has returned home to begin a career. The novel opens early in the summer of in West Egg, Long Island, where Nick has rented a house.

    Author:EHTEL GRANFIELD
    Language:English, Spanish, German
    Country:Canada
    Genre:Health & Fitness
    Pages:171
    Published (Last):29.11.2015
    ISBN:181-2-45735-836-8
    Distribution:Free* [*Register to download]
    Uploaded by: CAMMIE

    77335 downloads 142500 Views 24.64MB ePub Size Report


    Great Gatsby Ebook Doc

    Title: The Great Gatsby Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald * A Project Gutenberg of This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. .. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic--their retinas are one . The Great Gatsby ebook - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. Download The Great Gatsby ebook. The Great Gatsby is a. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald's third book .

    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.

    For Daisy, the shirts represent material wealth. Certainly, Daisy is overwhelmed by his luxurious lifestyle.

    This could be understood from this context that Gatsby has become richer than Daisy, as Daisy herself is also quite prosperous. She is astonished and dazzled by Gatsby's splendid possessions. Finally, Daisy is exactly a careless person, which is demonstrated through her behavior when she accidentally kills Myrtle. Subsequently, she does not take any responsibility but blaming killing Myrtle to Gatsby.

    Obviously, Daisy is unconscionable. She misleads people with false purity.

    Alexander Scourby, one of the greatest reading voices of his era overlapping Fitzgerald's enough to know and feel it all here does Carraway in a way that cannot, therefore, again be quite equalled. Imagine having a recording of a great contemporary actor reading Ahab's speeches in Moby Dick, and one begins to appreciate the gift that we only now have in recorded sound, something we are already quite casual about.

    But there is much more here than historical accuracy. Scourby's voice wraps around every phrase of Fitzgeral's text with both an actor's professionalism and a good reader's care, making it not only uncannily his own monument but also a monument in audio book history.

    It sets the bar, and anyone interested in the recorded voice as an art form should own this for repeated learning. I listened to this book over a few nights with my wife, after having read it first some sixteen years ago.

    It is a masterpiece, and known widely as such, but what surprised me on hearing it was how the book I'd remembered as terribly romantic was actually rather clear-eyed and dark. My wife, who had never read it, listened spell-bound, and at the end burst into tears at the sadness of it.

    A word about Scourby as reader - he is restrained but emotional, captures the personality of each character with a slightly different tone, and - most importantly for me - brings out the fact that the closing pages, which are often quoted out of context as deeply romantic, are in fact painfully cynical, a voice of disenchantment about the cost of America, not its promise.

    A masterpiece on the page and on tape. Can't recommend it too highly. The first time I encountered "The Great Gatsby" it was as an assignment in a high school English class. My recent re-read occurred after my son had read it in his high school English class. The reread brought back memories of a form of academic study from which I have been separated for many years. In this short book the reader can detect a collection of symbolic details which make the story much more than the tale which appears on the surface: The characters all play their roles in the development of the story.

    Shallow figures fill Gatsby's parties, but show their true level of concern for him when they all absent themselves from his funeral. The class distinctions between Daisy, a true upper class maiden, who can never lower herself to accept Gatsby, the aspirant to a class rank which wealth and parties cannot download. Gatsby's source of wealth is hinted at by his association with Meyer Wolfsheim, the gambler who fixed the World Series. Like others, he will associate with Gatsby in life, but has no time for him in death.

    The unnatural core of Gatsby's world is illustrated by his act of moving east, rather than the traditional westward migration, in order to achieve freedom and advancement. Tom and Daisy Buchanan represent old money, which will not accept Gatsby and, in the end, destroys him. Nick Carraway is the one character in the book who develops his own moral sense.

    His role as narrator permits us to see Gatsby's world through his eyes. It is he who sees, and is repelled by, the rotten cores of Gatsby and the worlds in which lives and into which he aspires. He sees the corruption deep inside Tom and Daisy Buchanan. Most of all, we see the innate goodness in Tom. Observing, but not entering Gatsby's world, he is able to understand and judge it.

    His final evaluation of Gatsby's world is seen when he abandons it all to return to his native Midwest. The causal acceptance of infidelity seems at odds with what I have always viewed as the ideal as well as the reality.

    As one studies the commentaries of this book, with all of its symbolisms, I often wonder if the symbols were really in F. Scott Fitzgerald's mind as he wrote the book, or whether they are constructs of later commentators. Either way, they give the book a depth which so many others lack.

    When my son speaks of other books he reads in English class, he always says "It's no Great Gatsby. I have always looked forward to reading the classic book The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. When I finally had time to read it, I wasn't disappointed.

    The Great Gatsby ebook

    The Great Gatsby, written in , is a fictional tale that takes place during the American Jazz Age. The story is set in the eastern U. Nick becomes involved in the social scene is West Egg, which is mainly centered on the weekly extravagant parties thrown by the incredibly wealthy and strangely mysterious Jay Gatsby. As the book progresses, Gatsby's past is slowly unraveled. Nick witnesses Gatsby's gradual admittance of his significant secret.

    He discovers that Gatsby is deeply in love with Daisy Buchanan, a beautiful socialite, trapped in a miserable marriage to an unfaithful husband. Though Nick does not want to be involved in any way with the illicit love affair between Daisy and Gatsby, he is gradually takes a larger part in Gatsby and Daisy's dangerous romance. When Jay and Daisy decide to declare their love to one another, it leaves Gatsby in an unforgettable and risky situation that changes the lives of all involved.

    The Great Gatsby was one of the most interesting books that I have ever read. It included a beautiful love story, danger, suspense, tales of true devotion and friendship, and a wonderful, thought-provoking commentary on the society in post-World War I America, a time of excess and confusion.

    I have learned several lessons from the novel, whether they are about loyalty or remaining true to oneself. I would recommend this book to anyone above the age of thirteen because of some parts of the novel that might be difficult to grasp. The Great Gatsby is a truly wonderful book, and sure to be enjoyed by many for many years to come.

    This is a marvelous look into the green-eyed monster of sexual jealousy. It's ripe with symbolic imagery from Fitzgerald's personal agony over his wife adulterous affair. Everyone knows the superficial lit class interpretation of the novel; idealistic Gatsby pursues fortune in vain attempt to dazzle and win golden girl, only to have her reject him. The story is not political.

    It is personal pure and simple! It would have taken place anytime, any place those two particular personalities came together. In real life Fitzgerald won his Zelda. But he then promptly and insouciantly cheated on her. She got him back by cheating on him. In his journals Fitzgerald wrote that something died at this time.

    Shortly afterward the couple moved to Paris. 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 dont care what its 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 reactionGatsby, 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 temperamentit 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.

    ELA 11 - The Great Gatsby: Home

    NoGatsby 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 were descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfathers 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 to-day.

    I never saw this great-uncle, but Im supposed to look like himwith special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in fathers 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 universeso 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, Whyye-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 weatherbeaten 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 dogat least I had him for a. It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road. How do you get to West Egg village? I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler.

    The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

    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 breathgiving 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 Mcenas 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 Newsand 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. This isnt just an epigramlife is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

    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 Yorkand where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles. They are not perfect ovalslike the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact endbut 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, thewell, 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.

    The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standardit was a factual imitation of some Htel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsbys mansion. Or, rather, as I didnt know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion, inhabited by a gentleman of that name.

    My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbors lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionairesall 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 Id 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 Havena national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anticlimax.

    His family were enormously wealthyeven in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproachbut now hed left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away; for instance, hed 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 dont 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 didnt believe itI had no sight into Daisys 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 gardensfinally 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 bodyhe 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 leveragea 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. Now, dont think my opinion on these matters is final, he seemed to say, just because Im stronger and more of a man than you are.

    We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.