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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 1
In
my
younger
and
more
vulnerable
years
my
father
gave
me
some
advice
that
I’ve
been
turning
over
in
my
mind
ever
since.
“Whenever
you
feel
like
criticizing
anyone,”
he
told
me,
“just
remember
that
all
the
people
in
this
world
haven’t
had
the
advantages
that
you’ve
had.”
He
didn’t
say
any
more,
but
we’ve
always
been
unusually
communicative
in
a
reserved
way,
and
I
understood
that
he
meant
a
great
deal
more
than
that.
In
consequence,
I’m
inclined
to
reserve
all
judgements,
a
habit
that
has
opened
up
many
curious
natures
to
me
and
also
made
me
the
victim
of
not
a
few
veteran
bores.
The
abnormal
mind
is
quick
to
detect
and
attach
itself
to
this
quality
when
it
appears
in
a
normal
person,
and
so
it
came
about
that
in
college
I
was
unjustly
accused
of
being
a
politician,
because
I
was
privy
to
the
secret
griefs
of
wild,
unknown
men.
Most
of
the
confidences
were
unsought—frequently
I
have
feigned
sleep,
preoccupation,
or
a
hostile
levity
when
I
realized
by
some
unmistakable
sign
that
an
intimate
revelation
was
quivering
on
the
horizon;
for
the
intimate
revelations
of
young
men,
or
at
least
the
terms
in
which
they
express
them,
are
usually
plagiaristic
and
marred
by
obvious
suppressions.
Reserving
judgements
is
a
matter
of
infinite
hope.
I
am
still
a
little
afraid
of
missing
something
if
I
forget
that,
as
my
father
snobbishly
suggested,
and
I
snobbishly
repeat,
a
sense
of
the
fundamental
decencies
is
parcelled
out
unequally
at
birth.
And,
after
boasting
this
way
of
my
tolerance,
I
come
to
the
admission
that
it
has
a
limit.
Conduct
may
be
founded
on
the
hard
rock
or
the
wet
marshes,
but
after
a
certain
point
I
don’t
care
what
it’s
founded
on.
When
I
came
back
from
the
East
last
autumn
I
felt
that
I
wanted
the
world
to
be
in
uniform
and
at
a
sort
of
moral
attention
forever;
I
wanted
no
more
riotous
excursions
with
privileged
glimpses
into
the
human
heart.
Only
Gatsby,
the
man
who
gives
his
name
to
this
book,
was
exempt
from
my
reaction—Gatsby,
who
represented
everything
for
which
I
have
an
unaffected
scorn.
If
personality
is
an
unbroken
series
of
successful
gestures,
then
there
was
something
gorgeous
about
him,
some
heightened
sensitivity
to
the
promises
of
life,
as
if
he
were
related
to
one
of
those
intricate
machines
that
register
earthquakes
ten
thousand
miles
away.
This
responsiveness
had
nothing
to
do
with
that
flabby
impressionability
which
is
dignified
under
the
name
of
the
“creative
temperament”—it
was
an
extraordinary
gift
for
hope,
a
romantic
readiness
such
as
I
have
never
found
in
any
other
person
and
which
it
is
not
likely
I
shall
ever
find
again.
No—Gatsby
turned
out
all
right
at
the
end;
it
is
what
preyed
on
Gatsby,
what
foul
dust
floated
in
the
wake
of
his
dreams
that
temporarily
closed
out
my
interest
in
the
abortive
sorrows
and
short-winded
elations
of
men.
My
family
have
been
prominent,
well-to-do
people
in
this
Middle
Western
city
for
three
generations.
The
Carraways
are
something
of
a
clan,
and
we
have
a
tradition
that
we’re
descended
from
the
Dukes
of
Buccleuch,
but
the
actual
founder
of
my
line
was
my
grandfather’s
brother,
who
came
here
in
fifty-one,
sent
a
substitute
to
the
Civil
War,
and
started
the
wholesale
hardware
business
that
my
father
carries
on
today.
I
never
saw
this
great-uncle,
but
I’m
supposed
to
look
like
him—with
special
reference
to
the
rather
hard-boiled
painting
that
hangs
in
father’s
office.
I
graduated
from
New
Haven
in
1915,
just
a
quarter
of
a
century
after
my
father,
and
a
little
later
I
participated
in
that
delayed
Teutonic
migration
known
as
the
Great
War.
I
enjoyed
the
counter-raid
so
thoroughly
that
I
came
back
restless.
Instead
of
being
the
warm
centre
of
the
world,
the
Middle
West
now
seemed
like
the
ragged
edge
of
the
universe—so
I
decided
to
go
East
and
learn
the
bond
business.
Everybody
I
knew
was
in
the
bond
business,
so
I
supposed
it
could
support
one
more
single
man.
All
my
aunts
and
uncles
talked
it
over
as
if
they
were
choosing
a
prep
school
for
me,
and
finally
said,
“Why—ye-es,”
with
very
grave,
hesitant
faces.
Father
agreed
to
finance
me
for
a
year,
and
after
various
delays
I
came
East,
permanently,
I
thought,
in
the
spring
of
twenty-two.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana