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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 1
When
I
was
younger
and
more
impressionable,
my
father
gave
me
some
advice
that
I've
been
pondering
ever
since.
"Whenever
you
feel
like
criticizing
someone,"
he
told
me,
"just
remember
that
not
everyone
in
this
world
has
had
the
advantages
that
you've
had."
He
didn’t
elaborate
further,
but
we’ve
always
had
a
way
of
communicating
without
words,
and
I
knew
he
meant
much
more.
As
a
result,
I
tend
to
withhold
judgments,
a
habit
that
has
opened
many
intriguing
personalities
to
me
and
also
made
me
the
target
of
quite
a
few
seasoned
bores.
Those
with
unusual
minds
quickly
recognize
this
trait
in
a
normal
person,
and
so
in
college,
I
was
wrongly
accused
of
being
a
politician,
because
I
was
privy
to
the
secret
sorrows
of
wild,
unknown
men.
Most
of
these
confidences
were
unsolicited—I
often
pretended
to
be
asleep,
busy,
or
amused
when
I
sensed
that
a
personal
revelation
was
approaching;
for
the
intimate
confessions
of
young
men,
or
at
least
the
way
they
express
them,
are
often
unoriginal
and
marred
by
obvious
omissions.
Holding
back
judgment
is
an
act
of
endless
hope.
I
still
fear
missing
something
if
I
forget
that,
as
my
father
elitistly
suggested,
and
I
elitistly
repeat,
a
sense
of
basic
decency
is
unevenly
distributed
at
birth.
And,
after
bragging
about
my
tolerance,
I
must
admit
it
has
its
limits.
Behavior
may
be
based
on
solid
ground
or
shaky
foundations,
but
after
a
point,
I
don’t
care
what
it’s
based
on.
When
I
returned
from
the
East
last
autumn,
I
felt
the
world
should
be
orderly
and
morally
upright;
I
wanted
no
more
wild
adventures
with
privileged
insights
into
the
human
heart.
Only
Gatsby,
the
man
whose
name
is
on
this
book,
was
exempt
from
my
reaction—Gatsby,
who
embodied
everything
I
genuinely
disdain.
If
personality
is
a
series
of
successful
acts,
then
there
was
something
marvelous
about
him,
some
heightened
sensitivity
to
life’s
promises,
as
if
he
were
connected
to
a
machine
that
registers
earthquakes
ten
thousand
miles
away.
This
sensitivity
wasn’t
like
the
weak
impressionability
often
called
the
“creative
temperament”—it
was
an
extraordinary
gift
for
hope,
a
romantic
readiness
I’ve
never
found
in
anyone
else
and
probably
never
will
again.
No—Gatsby
turned
out
all
right
in
the
end;
it
was
what
corrupted
him,
what
foul
dust
followed
his
dreams
that
briefly
closed
my
interest
in
the
short-lived
joys
and
sorrows
of
men.
My
family
has
been
prominent
and
wealthy
in
this
Middle
Western
city
for
three
generations.
The
Carraways
are
somewhat
of
a
clan,
and
we
have
a
tradition
of
being
descended
from
the
Dukes
of
Buccleuch,
but
the
real
founder
of
my
line
was
my
grandfather’s
brother,
who
came
here
in
1851,
sent
a
substitute
to
the
Civil
War,
and
started
the
wholesale
hardware
business
that
my
father
now
runs.
I
never
met
this
great-uncle,
but
I’m
said
to
resemble
him—especially
the
stern
portrait
that
hangs
in
my
father’s
office.
I
graduated
from
New
Haven
in
1915,
just
twenty-five
years
after
my
father,
and
shortly
after,
I
took
part
in
the
delayed
Teutonic
migration
known
as
the
Great
War.
I
enjoyed
the
counter-raid
so
much
that
I
returned
restless.
Instead
of
being
the
world’s
warm
center,
the
Middle
West
now
seemed
like
the
ragged
edge
of
the
universe—so
I
decided
to
go
East
and
learn
the
bond
business.
Everyone
I
knew
was
in
the
bond
business,
so
I
assumed
it
could
support
one
more
single
man.
All
my
aunts
and
uncles
discussed
it
as
if
choosing
a
prep
school
for
me,
and
finally
said,
“Why—yes,”
with
very
serious,
hesitant
faces.
Father
agreed
to
finance
me
for
a
year,
and
after
various
delays,
I
moved
East,
permanently,
I
thought,
in
the
spring
of
1922.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana