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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 1, Página 3
It
was
a
matter
of
chance
that
I
should
have
rented
a
house
in
one
of
the
strangest
communities
in
North
America.
It
was
on
that
slender
riotous
island
which
extends
itself
due
east
of
New
York—and
where
there
are,
among
other
natural
curiosities,
two
unusual
formations
of
land.
Twenty
miles
from
the
city
a
pair
of
enormous
eggs,
identical
in
contour
and
separated
only
by
a
courtesy
bay,
jut
out
into
the
most
domesticated
body
of
salt
water
in
the
Western
hemisphere,
the
great
wet
barnyard
of
Long
Island
Sound.
They
are
not
perfect
ovals—like
the
egg
in
the
Columbus
story,
they
are
both
crushed
flat
at
the
contact
end—but
their
physical
resemblance
must
be
a
source
of
perpetual
wonder
to
the
gulls
that
fly
overhead.
To
the
wingless
a
more
interesting
phenomenon
is
their
dissimilarity
in
every
particular
except
shape
and
size.
I
lived
at
West
Egg,
the—well,
the
less
fashionable
of
the
two,
though
this
is
a
most
superficial
tag
to
express
the
bizarre
and
not
a
little
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
neighbour’s
lawn,
and
the
consoling
proximity
of
millionaires—all
for
eighty
dollars
a
month.
Across
the
courtesy
bay
the
white
palaces
of
fashionable
East
Egg
glittered
along
the
water,
and
the
history
of
the
summer
really
begins
on
the
evening
I
drove
over
there
to
have
dinner
with
the
Tom
Buchanans.
Daisy
was
my
second
cousin
once
removed,
and
I’d
known
Tom
in
college.
And
just
after
the
war
I
spent
two
days
with
them
in
Chicago.
Her
husband,
among
various
physical
accomplishments,
had
been
one
of
the
most
powerful
ends
that
ever
played
football
at
New
Haven—a
national
figure
in
a
way,
one
of
those
men
who
reach
such
an
acute
limited
excellence
at
twenty-one
that
everything
afterward
savours
of
anticlimax.
His
family
were
enormously
wealthy—even
in
college
his
freedom
with
money
was
a
matter
for
reproach—but
now
he’d
left
Chicago
and
come
East
in
a
fashion
that
rather
took
your
breath
away:
for
instance,
he’d
brought
down
a
string
of
polo
ponies
from
Lake
Forest.
It
was
hard
to
realize
that
a
man
in
my
own
generation
was
wealthy
enough
to
do
that.
Why
they
came
East
I
don’t
know.
They
had
spent
a
year
in
France
for
no
particular
reason,
and
then
drifted
here
and
there
unrestfully
wherever
people
played
polo
and
were
rich
together.
This
was
a
permanent
move,
said
Daisy
over
the
telephone,
but
I
didn’t
believe
it—I
had
no
sight
into
Daisy’s
heart,
but
I
felt
that
Tom
would
drift
on
forever
seeking,
a
little
wistfully,
for
the
dramatic
turbulence
of
some
irrecoverable
football
game.
And
so
it
happened
that
on
a
warm
windy
evening
I
drove
over
to
East
Egg
to
see
two
old
friends
whom
I
scarcely
knew
at
all.
Their
house
was
even
more
elaborate
than
I
expected,
a
cheerful
red-and-white
Georgian
Colonial
mansion,
overlooking
the
bay.
The
lawn
started
at
the
beach
and
ran
towards
the
front
door
for
a
quarter
of
a
mile,
jumping
over
sundials
and
brick
walks
and
burning
gardens—finally
when
it
reached
the
house
drifting
up
the
side
in
bright
vines
as
though
from
the
momentum
of
its
run.
The
front
was
broken
by
a
line
of
French
windows,
glowing
now
with
reflected
gold
and
wide
open
to
the
warm
windy
afternoon,
and
Tom
Buchanan
in
riding
clothes
was
standing
with
his
legs
apart
on
the
front
porch.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana