I remember the hot summer days, where people run along the beaches of my neighbor’s, laughing and carrying on, with not a care in the world. Just waiting till the sun would set below the horizon, which signaled the start of what inevitably changed my life. I was a few months shy of thirty in the summer of 1922, when I met a man of many wonders and mysteries. His name was Gatsby.
Gatsby had been in love with a woman who I considered evil and loveless. Her name was Daisy Buchannan. She was my second cousin once removed. She was married to a man I knew from college. They were some of the most inconsiderate people I have ever met. They only seemed to care about themselves. And both Gatsby and I got caught up in the turmoil they had created.
Gatsby was not only a victim of Daisy’s pretty face but he was also a victim of her husband, Tom Buchannan, who wanted to protect his own self-preservation; was left gunned down by a grieving man, who thought that Gatsby had murdered his wife.
Gatsby, a man who represented everything I hated in a person, was really the only man I could consider a true friend in my time in New York.
I told him on that last day, that he was worth the whole damn bunch put together. He was one man that didn’t think selfishly about himself.
Now I am close to my own fall. I just wanted to leave this last word on Jay Gatsby’s behalf, hopefully allowing people to understand the true side of the man I had the pleasure of spending my whole summer with. Both Gatsby and I visited a fortune teller sometime before his untimely death. I just hope what she said was true. I just wish I had a chance to tell Jay that my true feelings for him were. . . .
Nickolas Carraway, born on August 20th, 1892, was reported dead at the age of 70 on June 10th 1963, in his niece’s house. He died peacefully in his sleep while in his bed, with what seemed to be a journal in his lap that he was writing in. But it seemed that what he was writing was cut off midsentence.