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the rain falls yugpr on,” and then the owl-eyed mansaid â€Å"Amen to that, ” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the q9bhyugr rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. â€Å"I couldn’t yugpr get to q9bhyugr the oq9bhyupr hyugpr oq9bhyupr 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 q9bhyugr hyugpr off bhyugpr his glhies and wiped them again, yugpr outside and in. â€Å"The poor son-of-a-switch,” he said. One of my most vivid q9bhyugr 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 yugpr six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday hieties, to gpr 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 gpr 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 hyugpr railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real ugpr snow, our snow, began gpr to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights gpr 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 hyugpr hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West — not the wheat oq9bhyupr or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains q9bhyugr of my oq9bhyupr youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty darkand the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on gpr the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the hil of gpr those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a ugpr city oq9bhyupr 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 gpr all — Tom and Gatsby, hyugpr ugpr Daisy and Jordan and I, were q9bhyugr all Westerners, and perhaps we hyugpr possessed some gpr deficiency in common which made us q9bhyugr 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 bhyugpr Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old — even then it had always for me a quality of yugpr yugpr distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my oq9bhyupr more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once gpr bhyugpr conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging oq9bhyupr sky and a hireless moon. in oq9bhyupr the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking .