The Great Gatsby, Chapter One, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

I’m re-reading Gatsby for the first time in ten years, due to an upcoming lit subject—good timing with the movie just coming out, although I’m not a Luhrmann fan and don’t hold high hopes for it. Two sentences leapt out at me in Chapter One. Firstly, a vivid description of Tom and Daisy’s front lawn and house:

“The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials 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.”

And then, of course, the mysterious Gatsby’s first physical appearance in the book, under the beautifully described “silver pepper of the stars”:

“The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars.”

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