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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 3
By
chance,
I
rented
a
house
in
one
of
the
strangest
communities
in
North
America.
It
was
on
a
narrow,
lively
island
east
of
New
York,
with
two
unusual
land
formations.
Twenty
miles
from
the
city,
two
large
egg-shaped
pieces
of
land,
separated
by
a
bay,
extend
into
Long
Island
Sound.
They
aren’t
perfect
ovals,
but
their
shape
must
amaze
the
birds
flying
over
them.
For
people,
their
differences
are
more
interesting
than
their
similar
size
and
shape.
I
lived
at
West
Egg,
the
less
fashionable
of
the
two,
though
this
is
a
simple
way
to
describe
the
strange
and
somewhat
dark
contrast
between
them.
My
house
was
at
the
very
tip
of
the
egg,
only
fifty
yards
from
the
Sound,
and
between
two
large
places
that
rented
for
twelve
or
fifteen
thousand
a
season.
The
one
on
my
right
was
huge
by
any
measure—it
looked
like
a
French
city
hall,
with
a
tower,
new
ivy,
a
marble
pool,
and
over
forty
acres
of
lawn
and
garden.
It
was
Gatsby’s
mansion.
Or,
as
I
didn’t
know
Mr.
Gatsby,
it
was
a
mansion
owned
by
someone
with
that
name.
My
house
was
unattractive,
but
it
was
small
and
overlooked,
so
I
had
a
view
of
the
water,
a
partial
view
of
my
neighbor’s
lawn,
and
the
comforting
closeness
of
millionaires—all
for
eighty
dollars
a
month.
Across
the
bay,
the
white
mansions
of
East
Egg
sparkled
by
the
water.
The
story
of
that
summer
truly
starts
when
I
drove
there
for
dinner
with
the
Tom
Buchanans.
Daisy
was
my
second
cousin
once
removed,
and
I
had
known
Tom
in
college.
Just
after
the
war,
I
spent
two
days
with
them
in
Chicago.
Her
husband,
among
other
achievements,
had
been
one
of
the
best
football
players
at
New
Haven—a
famous
figure
in
a
way.
He
reached
such
a
peak
at
twenty-one
that
everything
after
seemed
less
exciting.
His
family
was
very
wealthy—even
in
college,
his
spending
was
criticized.
Now
he
had
left
Chicago
and
come
East
in
a
surprising
way:
he
brought
polo
ponies
from
Lake
Forest.
It
was
hard
to
believe
someone
my
age
could
be
wealthy
enough
to
do
that.
I
didn’t
know
why
they
came
East.
They
spent
a
year
in
France
for
no
reason,
then
moved
around
to
places
where
rich
people
played
polo.
Daisy
said
over
the
phone
that
this
was
a
permanent
move,
but
I
didn’t
believe
her.
I
couldn’t
see
into
Daisy’s
heart,
but
I
felt
Tom
would
always
search,
a
bit
sadly,
for
the
excitement
of
a
past
football
game.
So,
on
a
warm
windy
evening,
I
drove
to
East
Egg
to
see
two
old
friends
I
hardly
knew.
Their
house
was
more
elaborate
than
I
expected,
a
cheerful
red-and-white
Georgian
Colonial
mansion
by
the
bay.
The
lawn
started
at
the
beach
and
stretched
to
the
front
door,
passing
sundials,
brick
paths,
and
bright
gardens.
It
reached
the
house
and
climbed
up
the
side
in
bright
vines.
The
front
was
broken
by
a
line
of
French
windows,
glowing
with
reflected
gold
and
wide
open
to
the
warm
afternoon.
Tom
Buchanan,
in
riding
clothes,
stood
with
his
legs
apart
on
the
porch.
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El Gran Gatsby — B1 Inglés | Cuentana