"The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chapters 4–5

He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American — that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games.

This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness.

And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg village before Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-coloured suit.

“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly, “what’s your opinion of me, anyhow?”
A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.

“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by.

The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned "character" leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.

They were so engrossed in each other that she didn't see me until I was five feet away.

In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired."

We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the façade of Fifty-Ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park.

His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy who was sitting frightened but graceful on the edge of a stiff chair.

They were sitting at either end of the couch looking at each other as if some question had been asked or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone.

He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room.

He was now decently clothed in a "sport shirt" open at the neck, sneakers and duck trousers of a nebulous hue.

I think that voice held him most with its fluctuating, feverish warmth because it couldn't be over-dreamed—that voice was a deathless song.