The Great Gatsby

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope.

sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

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.

life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.