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the rain falls 5uzr0 on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the ba3x5uz0 rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t 5uzr0 get to ba3x5uz0 the 2ba3x5ur0 x5uzr0 2ba3x5ur0 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 ba3x5uz0 x5uzr0 off 3x5uzr0 his glhies and wiped them again, 5uzr0 outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid ba3x5uz0 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 5uzr0 six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to zr0 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 zr0 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 x5uzr0 railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real uzr0 snow, our snow, began zr0 to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights zr0 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 x5uzr0 hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat 2ba3x5ur0 or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains ba3x5uz0 of my 2ba3x5ur0 youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on zr0 the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of zr0 those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a uzr0 city 2ba3x5ur0 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 zr0 all — Tom and Gatsby, x5uzr0 uzr0 Daisy and Jordan and I, were ba3x5uz0 all Westerners, and perhaps we x5uzr0 possessed some zr0 deficiency in common which made us ba3x5uz0 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 3x5uzr0 Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of 5uzr0 5uzr0 distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my 2ba3x5ur0 more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once zr0 3x5uzr0 conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging 2ba3x5ur0 sky and a hireless moon. in 2ba3x5ur0 the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .