The Lustful Eye Of Nick Carraway (Not Finished Yet)

The Lustful Eye Of Nick Carraway

Hello, I'm Nick Carraway and this is my own tale of those days long gone, before the depression, before the second war, before television, in the olden days, when I was a young man and my experience in that era of post war culture. It was the calm before the storm which loomed only 7 years ahead. I write this to tell my story and the story of those who were from that age, particularly Jay Gatsby and the Buchanan family, people who are now almost forgotten. Not too uncommon I suppose for people to be forgotten as the sands of time go by, but I want to preserve their memory. I am the last living person who can recount this experience first hand. I now look back at them all, as an older wiser man than I was back when I was 24 going on 25, the memories of the people will forever live on in that gorgeous time of gangsters, jazz, and bootlegging, and if you were immoral, also a time of totalitarian partying. Now, I personally consider mine-self to be a moral observer only occasionally joining the action. Maybe I'm wrong, gosh that's the problem with writing my owneth novel. It's always going to be in my favor. The playing cards shall at each moment endeth with me being victorious. Here I am, Nick Carraway, your humble incestuous narrator. Before my tale starts I have one last statement to tell you, I am inclined to reserve all judgements. Just to give a bit of background about myself, I was born in 1897 and served in WWI from 1915-1918 with a british platoon. (I was vacationing with my parents at the time of the war to celebrate my graduation) my platoon was discharged in July of 1918 just as the war was winding down and I applied and got into Yale and had just graduated. Well here my tale begins in 1922, I did look like Tobey Maguire and I had amassed some funds from investments, I was trying to save up money for investments myself, so I lived in a rather penniless, but quite keen old house on the West Egg of Long Island. T'was a lovely eld cottage surrounded by trees and a quite quaint garden of irises, rose bushes, and other plants. I wast intending on spending that summer reading m're on stocks and bonds, the flowers greeting me and the birds singing to me. I liked to consider it a little slice of Heaven, it was also close to the beach, so I could watch the beautiful girls as well. The house next to mine was very big and beautiful, but seemed in some way deserted, or like something was missing, though I couldn't quite place my finger upon it. It was a somber but flamboyant castle hiding it's own alternative reality, one in which the West Egg is the land of the booshwazee. I had served in the Great War just after high school and I was a recent graduate from Yale and had become a stock broker. In those days Wall Street was high as a kite and the world seemed so foreign to me. I was from the Midwest, which was rather conservative. I grew up very close to the church and always held onto my morals and my obligations to uphold them even when it's tough. In my own words, I'm a good person. I kept a painting of the pope in my living room, a crucifix in my kitchen, and a rosary on my nightstand. Looking back now I should've known New York wasn't the place for me, but in defense of my ignorance I always thought everyone was just like me. An upstanding person with God at his side and a moral compass guiding his every decision. Anyway, it was a lot different in New York as I'd come to find out, in all honesty I only moved because it would be better business for me, more people invested in New York than in the Midwest, in New York the morals were non-existent, and the parties were massive, bigger than I could ever imagine, being there made me feel like a diamond in the rough, like the one shred of godliness in a pit of moral depravity. Anyway I hadst recently hath taken a calleth via telegraph from my beautiful 2nd cousin named Daisy. We had grown up fairly close to one another as children in the 1900s, I missed her so, I was thrilled to be moving in so close to her. Anyway I got in my 1908 Buick Model 10, (I was fond of eld styles) and traveled to the residence of Daisy and her husband Tom Buchanan. Tom and I used to beest best friends at Yale University, but he had always had this idea of superiority, he also struggled with lust, and greed which had always plagued him, even in those days. He was infuriatingly snobbish, but had always respected me. He was once a famous polo player, but by 1917 his glory days were gone and in 1918 returned to college for recreational studies and that was where we met. I arrived at their home after about 5 minutes. Tom was a bit older than at which hour I had lasteth seen him, but I could at each moment see some evil in Tom, those eyes were bitter, cold, and dead, as if Tom were a walking corpse. I always focused on the eyes my father always told me.