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El Gran Gatsby
Capítulo 6, Página 2
I
suppose
he’d
had
the
name
ready
for
a
long
time,
even
then.
His
parents
were
shiftless
and
unsuccessful
farm
people—his
imagination
had
never
really
accepted
them
as
his
parents
at
all.
The
truth
was
that
Jay
Gatsby
of
West
Egg,
Long
Island,
sprang
from
his
Platonic
conception
of
himself.
He
was
a
son
of
God—a
phrase
which,
if
it
means
anything,
means
just
that—and
he
must
be
about
His
Father’s
business,
the
service
of
a
vast,
vulgar,
and
meretricious
beauty.
So
he
invented
just
the
sort
of
Jay
Gatsby
that
a
seventeen-year-old
boy
would
be
likely
to
invent,
and
to
this
conception
he
was
faithful
to
the
end.
For
over
a
year
he
had
been
beating
his
way
along
the
south
shore
of
Lake
Superior
as
a
clam-digger
and
a
salmon-fisher
or
in
any
other
capacity
that
brought
him
food
and
bed.
His
brown,
hardening
body
lived
naturally
through
the
half-fierce,
half-lazy
work
of
the
bracing
days.
He
knew
women
early,
and
since
they
spoiled
him
he
became
contemptuous
of
them,
of
young
virgins
because
they
were
ignorant,
of
the
others
because
they
were
hysterical
about
things
which
in
his
overwhelming
self-absorption
he
took
for
granted.
But
his
heart
was
in
a
constant,
turbulent
riot.
The
most
grotesque
and
fantastic
conceits
haunted
him
in
his
bed
at
night.
A
universe
of
ineffable
gaudiness
spun
itself
out
in
his
brain
while
the
clock
ticked
on
the
washstand
and
the
moon
soaked
with
wet
light
his
tangled
clothes
upon
the
floor.
Each
night
he
added
to
the
pattern
of
his
fancies
until
drowsiness
closed
down
upon
some
vivid
scene
with
an
oblivious
embrace.
For
a
while
these
reveries
provided
an
outlet
for
his
imagination;
they
were
a
satisfactory
hint
of
the
unreality
of
reality,
a
promise
that
the
rock
of
the
world
was
founded
securely
on
a
fairy’s
wing.
An
instinct
toward
his
future
glory
had
led
him,
some
months
before,
to
the
small
Lutheran
College
of
St.
Olaf’s
in
southern
Minnesota.
He
stayed
there
two
weeks,
dismayed
at
its
ferocious
indifference
to
the
drums
of
his
destiny,
to
destiny
itself,
and
despising
the
janitor’s
work
with
which
he
was
to
pay
his
way
through.
Then
he
drifted
back
to
Lake
Superior,
and
he
was
still
searching
for
something
to
do
on
the
day
that
Dan
Cody’s
yacht
dropped
anchor
in
the
shallows
alongshore.
Cody
was
fifty
years
old
then,
a
product
of
the
Nevada
silver
fields,
of
the
Yukon,
of
every
rush
for
metal
since
seventy-five.
The
transactions
in
Montana
copper
that
made
him
many
times
a
millionaire
found
him
physically
robust
but
on
the
verge
of
soft-mindedness,
and,
suspecting
this,
an
infinite
number
of
women
tried
to
separate
him
from
his
money.
The
none
too
savoury
ramifications
by
which
Ella
Kaye,
the
newspaper
woman,
played
Madame
de
Maintenon
to
his
weakness
and
sent
him
to
sea
in
a
yacht,
were
common
property
of
the
turgid
journalism
in
1902.
He
had
been
coasting
along
all
too
hospitable
shores
for
five
years
when
he
turned
up
as
James
Gatz’s
destiny
in
Little
Girl
Bay.
To
young
Gatz,
resting
on
his
oars
and
looking
up
at
the
railed
deck,
that
yacht
represented
all
the
beauty
and
glamour
in
the
world.
I
suppose
he
smiled
at
Cody—he
had
probably
discovered
that
people
liked
him
when
he
smiled.
At
any
rate
Cody
asked
him
a
few
questions
(one
of
them
elicited
the
brand
new
name)
and
found
that
he
was
quick
and
extravagantly
ambitious.
A
few
days
later
he
took
him
to
Duluth
and
bought
him
a
blue
coat,
six
pairs
of
white
duck
trousers,
and
a
yachting
cap.
And
when
the
Tuolomee
left
for
the
West
Indies
and
the
Barbary
Coast,
Gatsby
left
too.
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El Gran Gatsby — C1 Inglés | Cuentana