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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 2, Página 1
About
halfway
between
West
Egg
and
New
York
the
motor
road
hastily
joins
the
railroad
and
runs
beside
it
for
a
quarter
of
a
mile,
so
as
to
shrink
away
from
a
certain
desolate
area
of
land.
This
is
a
valley
of
ashes—a
fantastic
farm
where
ashes
grow
like
wheat
into
ridges
and
hills
and
grotesque
gardens;
where
ashes
take
the
forms
of
houses
and
chimneys
and
rising
smoke
and,
finally,
with
a
transcendent
effort,
of
ash-grey
men,
who
move
dimly
and
already
crumbling
through
the
powdery
air.
Occasionally
a
line
of
grey
cars
crawls
along
an
invisible
track,
gives
out
a
ghastly
creak,
and
comes
to
rest,
and
immediately
the
ash-grey
men
swarm
up
with
leaden
spades
and
stir
up
an
impenetrable
cloud,
which
screens
their
obscure
operations
from
your
sight.
But
above
the
grey
land
and
the
spasms
of
bleak
dust
which
drift
endlessly
over
it,
you
perceive,
after
a
moment,
the
eyes
of
Doctor
T.
J.
Eckleburg.
The
eyes
of
Doctor
T.
J.
Eckleburg
are
blue
and
gigantic—their
retinas
are
one
yard
high.
They
look
out
of
no
face,
but,
instead,
from
a
pair
of
enormous
yellow
spectacles
which
pass
over
a
nonexistent
nose.
Evidently
some
wild
wag
of
an
oculist
set
them
there
to
fatten
his
practice
in
the
borough
of
Queens,
and
then
sank
down
himself
into
eternal
blindness,
or
forgot
them
and
moved
away.
But
his
eyes,
dimmed
a
little
by
many
paintless
days,
under
sun
and
rain,
brood
on
over
the
solemn
dumping
ground.
The
valley
of
ashes
is
bounded
on
one
side
by
a
small
foul
river,
and,
when
the
drawbridge
is
up
to
let
barges
through,
the
passengers
on
waiting
trains
can
stare
at
the
dismal
scene
for
as
long
as
half
an
hour.
There
is
always
a
halt
there
of
at
least
a
minute,
and
it
was
because
of
this
that
I
first
met
Tom
Buchanan’s
mistress.
The
fact
that
he
had
one
was
insisted
upon
wherever
he
was
known.
His
acquaintances
resented
the
fact
that
he
turned
up
in
popular
cafés
with
her
and,
leaving
her
at
a
table,
sauntered
about,
chatting
with
whomsoever
he
knew.
Though
I
was
curious
to
see
her,
I
had
no
desire
to
meet
her—but
I
did.
I
went
up
to
New
York
with
Tom
on
the
train
one
afternoon,
and
when
we
stopped
by
the
ash-heaps
he
jumped
to
his
feet
and,
taking
hold
of
my
elbow,
literally
forced
me
from
the
car.
“We’re
getting
off,”
he
insisted.
“I
want
you
to
meet
my
girl.”
I
think
he’d
tanked
up
a
good
deal
at
luncheon,
and
his
determination
to
have
my
company
bordered
on
violence.
The
supercilious
assumption
was
that
on
Sunday
afternoon
I
had
nothing
better
to
do.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana