(no subject)
It was a Tuesday. I remember it quite clearly. Now, I can't say for certain how I happened upon the place, but nevertheless there I was. It was a grand place, I likened it right away to Gatsby's place. Large, alive. I don't know how long I stood silent as I tried to gain my ground. I surveyed the room once, twice, thrice, before I closed the door from which I had stumbled out into the place from and took a few steps forwards, fully expecting Gatsby to rush out in one of his flamboyant cream suits and clasp me by the shoulder saying "What do you think, Old Sport? Let me give you a tour of my new place."
Gatsby was dead though. This wasn't his place.
I'm not a very social man by nature. I prefer to listen, to observe, but here I felt the need to speak, for it was only good upbringing (something my father had always stressed when I was a boy) to introduce myself.
"Good evening. I'm Nick. Nick Carraway."
I paused before I spoke again. "My sense of direction is terrible. Please, do you know where I am?"
Typist: And this would be Nick. From the Great Gatsby. He narrates and stuff.
Gatsby was dead though. This wasn't his place.
I'm not a very social man by nature. I prefer to listen, to observe, but here I felt the need to speak, for it was only good upbringing (something my father had always stressed when I was a boy) to introduce myself.
"Good evening. I'm Nick. Nick Carraway."
I paused before I spoke again. "My sense of direction is terrible. Please, do you know where I am?"
Typist: And this would be Nick. From the Great Gatsby. He narrates and stuff.