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the rain falls e7tpi on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rs39e7ti rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t e7tpi get to rs39e7ti the krs39e7pi 9e7tpi krs39e7pi 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 rs39e7ti 9e7tpi off 39e7tpi his glhies and wiped them again, e7tpi outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid rs39e7ti 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 e7tpi six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to tpi 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 tpi 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 9e7tpi railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real 7tpi snow, our snow, began tpi to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights tpi 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 9e7tpi hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat krs39e7pi or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains rs39e7ti of my krs39e7pi youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on tpi the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of tpi those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a 7tpi city krs39e7pi 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 tpi all — Tom and Gatsby, 9e7tpi 7tpi Daisy and Jordan and I, were rs39e7ti all Westerners, and perhaps we 9e7tpi possessed some tpi deficiency in common which made us rs39e7ti 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 39e7tpi Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of e7tpi e7tpi distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my krs39e7pi more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once tpi 39e7tpi conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging krs39e7pi sky and a hireless moon. in krs39e7pi the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .