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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 3
It
was
by
chance
that
I
rented
a
house
in
one
of
the
strangest
communities
in
North
America.
It
was
on
that
narrow,
lively
island
that
stretches
east
of
New
York—and
where
there
are,
among
other
natural
curiosities,
two
unusual
land
formations.
Twenty
miles
from
the
city,
a
pair
of
enormous
eggs,
identical
in
shape
and
separated
by
a
small
bay,
jut
out
into
the
most
domesticated
body
of
saltwater
in
the
Western
hemisphere,
the
great
wet
barnyard
of
Long
Island
Sound.
They
aren’t
perfect
ovals—like
the
egg
in
the
Columbus
story,
they’re
both
flat
at
the
contact
end—but
their
physical
resemblance
must
be
a
constant
source
of
wonder
to
the
gulls
flying
overhead.
To
those
without
wings,
a
more
interesting
phenomenon
is
their
difference
in
every
aspect
except
shape
and
size.
I
lived
at
West
Egg,
the—well,
the
less
fashionable
of
the
two,
though
this
is
a
superficial
label
to
describe
the
bizarre
and
somewhat
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
standard—it
was
a
factual
imitation
of
some
Hôtel
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
Gatsby’s
mansion.
Or,
rather,
as
I
didn’t
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
neighbor’s
lawn,
and
the
comforting
proximity
of
millionaires—all
for
eighty
dollars
a
month.
Across
the
bay,
the
elegant
white
mansions
of
fashionable
East
Egg
sparkled
by
the
water.
The
real
story
of
that
summer
begins
the
evening
I
drove
over
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
his
many
physical
achievements,
had
been
one
of
the
most
formidable
football
players
at
New
Haven—a
national
figure
in
his
own
way.
He
was
one
of
those
men
who
reached
such
a
peak
of
excellence
at
twenty-one
that
everything
afterward
seemed
like
an
anticlimax.
His
family
was
incredibly
wealthy—even
in
college,
his
carefree
spending
was
criticized—but
now
he
had
left
Chicago
and
moved
East
in
a
way
that
was
quite
astonishing.
For
example,
he
brought
a
string
of
polo
ponies
from
Lake
Forest.
It
was
hard
to
grasp
that
someone
my
age
was
wealthy
enough
to
do
that.
I
never
understood
why
they
moved
East.
They
had
spent
a
year
in
France
without
any
real
reason,
then
drifted
from
place
to
place,
wherever
people
played
polo
and
were
wealthy
together.
Daisy
told
me
over
the
phone
that
this
move
was
permanent,
but
I
didn’t
believe
it.
I
couldn’t
see
into
Daisy’s
heart,
but
I
felt
that
Tom
would
always
drift,
searching,
a
bit
wistfully,
for
the
excitement
of
some
unforgettable
football
game.
So,
on
a
warm,
breezy
evening,
I
drove
to
East
Egg
to
visit
two
old
friends
I
barely
knew.
Their
house
was
even
more
elaborate
than
I
expected,
a
cheerful
red-and-white
Georgian
Colonial
mansion
overlooking
the
bay.
The
lawn
stretched
from
the
beach
to
the
front
door
for
a
quarter
of
a
mile,
jumping
over
sundials
and
brick
paths,
through
vibrant
gardens—finally
reaching
the
house
and
climbing
up
the
side
in
bright
vines,
as
if
propelled
by
its
own
momentum.
The
front
was
broken
by
a
line
of
French
windows,
glowing
with
reflected
gold
and
wide
open
to
the
warm,
breezy
afternoon.
Tom
Buchanan,
in
riding
clothes,
stood
with
his
legs
apart
on
the
porch.
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El Gran Gatsby — B2 Inglés | Cuentana