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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 9, Página 24
One
of
my
clearest
memories
is
returning
West
from
prep
school
and
later
from
college
at
Christmas.
Those
going
farther
than
Chicago
gathered
at
the
old
Union
Station
at
six
in
the
evening,
with
a
few
Chicago
friends,
already
caught
up
in
holiday
fun,
to
say
a
quick
goodbye.
I
remember
the
fur
coats
of
girls
coming
back
from
Miss
This-or-That’s,
the
frozen
breath
chatter,
and
the
hands
waving
as
we
saw
old
friends.
We
exchanged
invitations:
"Are
you
going
to
the
Ordways’?
The
Herseys’?
The
Schultzes’?"
We
held
long
green
tickets
tightly
in
our
gloved
hands.
Finally,
the
murky
yellow
cars
of
the
Chicago,
Milwaukee,
and
St.
Paul
railroad
looked
as
cheerful
as
Christmas
itself
on
the
tracks
by
the
gate.
As
we
left
into
the
winter
night,
the
real
snow,
our
snow,
stretched
beside
us
and
twinkled
against
the
windows.
The
dim
lights
of
small
Wisconsin
stations
passed
by,
and
a
sharp,
wild
feeling
filled
the
air.
We
breathed
it
deeply
as
we
walked
back
from
dinner
through
the
cold
corridors,
feeling
deeply
connected
to
this
country
for
one
strange
hour
before
we
blended
into
it
again.
That’s
my
Middle
West—not
the
wheat
or
the
prairies
or
the
lost
Swede
towns,
but
the
exciting
returning
trains
of
my
youth,
the
street
lamps,
and
sleigh
bells
in
the
frosty
dark,
and
the
shadows
of
holly
wreaths
on
the
snow
from
lighted
windows.
I
am
part
of
that,
a
little
serious
from
the
long
winters,
a
bit
pleased
from
growing
up
in
the
Carraway
house
in
a
city
where
homes
still
carry
a
family’s
name
for
decades.
I
see
now
that
this
has
been
a
story
of
the
West,
after
all—Tom
and
Gatsby,
Daisy
and
Jordan,
and
I
were
all
Westerners,
and
maybe
we
had
some
flaw
in
common
that
made
us
unsuited
for
Eastern
life.
Even
when
the
East
excited
me
the
most,
even
when
I
felt
its
superiority
over
the
boring,
sprawling
towns
beyond
the
Ohio,
with
their
endless
questions
sparing
only
children
and
the
very
old—even
then,
it
always
seemed
a
bit
distorted
to
me.
West
Egg,
especially,
still
appears
in
my
strange
dreams.
I
see
it
as
a
night
scene
by
El
Greco:
a
hundred
houses,
both
normal
and
strange,
under
a
gloomy
sky
and
a
dull
moon.
In
the
foreground,
four
serious
men
in
suits
walk
along
the
sidewalk
with
a
stretcher
carrying
a
drunk
woman
in
a
white
dress.
Her
hand
hangs
over
the
side,
sparkling
with
jewels.
The
men
turn
into
a
house—the
wrong
house.
But
no
one
knows
the
woman’s
name,
and
no
one
cares.
After
Gatsby’s
death,
the
East
felt
haunted
for
me,
distorted
beyond
what
I
could
fix.
So
when
the
blue
smoke
of
dry
leaves
filled
the
air
and
the
wind
blew
the
wet
laundry
stiff
on
the
line,
I
decided
to
go
back
home.
There
was
one
thing
to
do
before
I
left,
something
awkward
and
unpleasant
that
maybe
should
have
been
left
alone.
But
I
wanted
to
leave
things
in
order
and
not
just
hope
the
sea
would
wash
away
my
problems.
I
saw
Jordan
Baker
and
talked
about
what
happened
to
us
and
what
happened
to
me
afterward.
She
lay
still,
listening,
in
a
big
chair.
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El Gran Gatsby — B1 Inglés | Cuentana