On Sunday morning while church bells rang in the villages alongshore, the world and its mistress returned to… — F.Scott Fitzgerald

No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.

Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone."

"I wouldn’t ask too much of her," I ventured. "You can’t repeat the past."

"Can’t repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"

He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.

"I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before," he said, nodding determinedly. "She’ll see."