Character: Nick Carraway

The sound of her voice on the telephone carried with it a coolness and freshness, as if the window of the office suddenly flew a piece of turf from the field for the game of Golf.

Her voice especially attracted him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth. There's imagination could not exaggerate - the immortal song sounded in the voice.

- You no-good driver - I got angry. - Can't be careful, so do not hold to operate the machine.
- I'm careful.
- As it is not so.
Well, other careful - carelessly she said.
What's that got to do with it?
They will give me the way. For collision requires two.
- Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself?
- I hope that you will not get, she said. - I hate careless people. That's why I like you.

She was incurably dishonest.

We all turned and looked around for Gatsby. Must have really been something romantic about the man, if the rumors about him, repeating in a whisper, even those who a little about what in the world consider it necessary to speak in a low voice.

She carried her body with the sensual habits, which is peculiar to some full women.

Absolutely everything! And this had nothing to add, besides the inconvenient fact that it was all a lie.

Bright, yellow Windows invite the casual viewer to lift the veil of our mysteries. I was a spectator, carefree and curious, I was inside and out. Fascinated by the inexhaustible variety of life.

- But who cares? I wasn't any good...
- Just write for yourself. You could always burn it.

In his teenage years when a person is particularly receptive, my father gave me some advice: "don't rush to judge people, try to see the good in them". I followed his advice as he could. But even my patience has a limit.

- Nobody's seen him! They say he's a second cousin to the Kaiser and cousin to the devil!
- Is it bad of me master, old man. I happen to Gatsby.

Caravansary: playboys billionaires and their luxury blonde; the heiresses comparing inheritances on the beach Gatsby; my boss, Walter chase, squander money at the roulette; gangsters and governors exchanging telephone numbers in the eyes of the tabloids; the movie stars, Directors, Broadway, the censors, the ethicist, the students that lessons ran away...

Whatever you're doing, wherever he lived, was rich or poor, you become a piece of glass in a kaleidoscope, a figure in the carnival, spilled through Gatsby's door.

- If not for the mist, we could see the green light...
- Light?..
- The one that burns all night at the dock...
And probably that the colossal significance of that light had vanished for Gatsby forever.