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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 2
The
practical
thing
was
to
find
rooms
in
the
city,
but
it
was
a
warm
season,
and
I
had
just
left
a
country
of
wide
lawns
and
friendly
trees,
so
when
a
young
man
at
the
office
suggested
that
we
take
a
house
together
in
a
commuting
town,
it
sounded
like
a
great
idea.
He
found
the
house,
a
weather-beaten
cardboard
bungalow
at
eighty
a
month,
but
at
the
last
minute
the
firm
ordered
him
to
Washington,
and
I
went
out
to
the
country
alone.
I
had
a
dog—at
least
I
had
him
for
a
few
days
until
he
ran
away—and
an
old
Dodge
and
a
Finnish
woman,
who
made
my
bed
and
cooked
breakfast
and
muttered
Finnish
wisdom
to
herself
over
the
electric
stove.
It
was
lonely
for
a
day
or
so
until
one
morning
some
man,
more
recently
arrived
than
I,
stopped
me
on
the
road.
“How
do
you
get
to
West
Egg
village?”
he
asked
helplessly.
I
told
him.
And
as
I
walked
on
I
was
lonely
no
longer.
I
was
a
guide,
a
pathfinder,
an
original
settler.
He
had
casually
conferred
on
me
the
freedom
of
the
neighbourhood.
And
so
with
the
sunshine
and
the
great
bursts
of
leaves
growing
on
the
trees,
just
as
things
grow
in
fast
movies,
I
had
that
familiar
conviction
that
life
was
beginning
over
again
with
the
summer.
There
was
so
much
to
read,
for
one
thing,
and
so
much
fine
health
to
be
pulled
down
out
of
the
young
breath-giving
air.
I
bought
a
dozen
volumes
on
banking
and
credit
and
investment
securities,
and
they
stood
on
my
shelf
in
red
and
gold
like
new
money
from
the
mint,
promising
to
unfold
the
shining
secrets
that
only
Midas
and
Morgan
and
Maecenas
knew.
And
I
had
the
high
intention
of
reading
many
other
books
besides.
I
was
rather
literary
in
college—one
year
I
wrote
a
series
of
very
solemn
and
obvious
editorials
for
the
Yale
News—and
now
I
was
going
to
bring
back
all
such
things
into
my
life
and
become
again
that
most
limited
of
all
specialists,
the
“well-rounded
man.”
This
isn’t
just
an
epigram—life
is
much
more
successfully
looked
at
from
a
single
window,
after
all.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana