The Great Gatsby Chapter 4 Quotes

I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited — they went there.

There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars.

They conducted themselves according to the rules of behavior associated with an amusement park.

Every Friday five crates of oranges and lemons arrived from a fruiterer in New York — every Monday these same oranges and lemons left his back door in a pyramid of pulpless halves.

By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived—no thin five-piece affair but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums.

There was dancing now on the canvas in the garden; old men pushing young girls backward in eternal graceless circles, superior couples holding each other tortuously, fashionably and keeping in the corners.

Who wants to go to town?

An invitation to Miss Baker had already been suggested when I remembered that I had no more cigarettes.

Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

With fenders spread like wings we scattered light through half Astoria — only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar “jug — jug — spat!” of a motor cycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.

He’s a bootlegger,” said the young ladies, moving somewhere between his cocktails and his flowers. “One time he killed a man who had found out that he was nephew to von Hindenburg and second cousin to the devil.

Now he’s got something to matter with him — he’s not eating at all.

And he doesn’t know Cheyne’s address.

He’s Mr. Gatsby.

I’m not a very good host.

If he’d of lived he’d of been a great man.

Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?

She used to be able to understand him better than any one else.

Look inside. Daisy put her face in the door. The cushion. Miss Baker sat down gloomily: Thank you.

He’s a big bootlegger,” I said. “Who is?” Puzzled, she mounted the steps. “Oh,” she looked at me absently. “What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon?”

And I like large parties.

A few bottles of ginger ale on the lower shelf.

I’ll introduce you, old sport!

His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Ha!” I was beginning to remark that in addition to dodging vermin one also scurried from the sight of Bob the veteran, when the butler announced dinner.

I’ve never met so many celebrities!

But even Mr. Cayman could not be more to her than any attendant in his polo shirt, and its absurd of him to flatter himself he’s in any way distinguished. Tom’s got some woman in New York.

Next day at five o’clock she married Tom Buchanana and sealed her acute happiness for the time being.

He’s the man who fixed the 1919 World Series.

He’s connected with Wolfsheim —

I just heard the most amazing thing about him — but I hardly believe it.

Definitely the man’s a genius.

I’ve heard he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his money comes from.

They were here, and they sat down at a table covered with a snowy cloth, and Daisy knew that it wasn’t a coincidence, for he looked at her with the most intense delight on his face: “You resemble the advertisement of the man,” she described him, “you know the advertisement of the man—”

Look,” she complained, “I’d love to dump it on his doorstep.”

I’m going to speak to him about it right now.

A woman rushed out and wrung her hands in the lax of the door-frame. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Gordie!”

And the two young actors, stuck for the price of a wedding ring, had stolen it out of a licensed photographer’s studio.

There was the sound of a motor turning into my lane and Gatsby’s father came down the path toward Gatsby’s house, wrinkled and dusty, well past sixty, and carrying a battered, nondescript suitcase. He was now decently clothed in a “tie holder,” he informed me, and was retired.

Jimmy sent me a picture of the house!

Don’t you remember, Miss Baker? Daisy remarked that the rain was only polite it waited for her.

“What!?” His eyes flashed around indignantly. “Why, that’s my affair,” I answered as casually as I could.

What’s that? I inquired innocently. “About that. As a matter of fact-” He hesitated. “I don’t want you to get a false idea of me from all these stories you hear.”

She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there.

Were you a friend of my boy’s?” He smiled at me — the news will be in the Chicago papers tomorr.

Jimmy always liked it better with a crowd. He got up and moved slowly to the door screen.

You’re crazy!” I exclaimed, incredulously. “I can’t make a sport of you, Tom! How pretty do you think she’ll be without that pretty face?”

So then I grew up. One of the few things I acutely remember is a little but incidentally striking detail.

Then the gates of his garage opened like his heart, and his Rolls-Royce assembled itself like a ghostly motor car, all blue and silver and bright with nickel, which squealed full Gatsby.

So many people came that they took away the man who kept the books and hired another with pretensions to the throne.