Gatsby looked like a plucked rooster, shoulders hanging and eyes cast up to Heaven—no, only to Daisy’s window, and if I didn’t remember what kind of thing he was, I could hate her for making someone look at her like that. I could almost hear the chorus, his only sin was loving her too much, and at the same time, I could hear the rejoinder in my own voice: his sin was in only loving her and nothing else.
