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the rain falls m6wdc on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the vx5rm6wc rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t m6wdc get to vx5rm6wc the nvx5rm6dc rm6wdc nvx5rm6dc house, ” he remarked. â€Å"Neither could anybody else.” â€Å"Go on!” He started. â€Å"Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took vx5rm6wc rm6wdc off 5rm6wdc his glhies and wiped them again, m6wdc outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid vx5rm6wc memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at m6wdc six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to wdc bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that’s and the chatter of wdc frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: â€Å"Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?” and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul rm6wdc railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real 6wdc snow, our snow, began wdc to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights wdc of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange rm6wdc hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat nvx5rm6dc or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains vx5rm6wc of my nvx5rm6dc youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on wdc the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of wdc those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a 6wdc city nvx5rm6dc where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after wdc all — Tom and Gatsby, rm6wdc 6wdc Daisy and Jordan and I, were vx5rm6wc all Westerners, and perhaps we rm6wdc possessed some wdc deficiency in common which made us vx5rm6wc subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the 5rm6wdc Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of m6wdc m6wdc distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my nvx5rm6dc more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once wdc 5rm6wdc conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging nvx5rm6dc sky and a hireless moon. in nvx5rm6dc the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .