The Great Gatsby Monologue

Pg. 41 Suddenly one of the gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.
I had little other to do with my time other than attend Mr. Gatsby’s small soiree as golfing was out of the picture as the pestilential Glenna Collett had doffed me from the finals with a birdie. I had attended a Gatsby party before, however, this time I received a personal invitation from Gatsby himself, though he readily knew that all the

Rather than flit from coterie to coterie gossiping about Mr. Gatsby’s upbringing and come to money, I had an opportunity to speak to the man himself. There were countless rumors regarding his business and past; Mr. Gatsby was either a bootlegger, a German spy, an American spy, the nephew of Von Hindenburg, an assassin, or second cousin to the devil, or a melange of the infinite speculations made by those who knew him and those who did not. None of my various other confidants knew of his origins or where a man like him could possibly be derived from. In fact, Tom had even lumped him in with the colored people stating that the dominant white people in society must look out for the “others” to avoid the downfall of civilization; his complacency and absorbed view of the world will eventually manifest him into a decrepit man with a trust fund. I hope to be there when he does.
I arrived promptly before seven adorned in a beaded olive shift, at Mr. Gatsby’s front door and encountered a venerable man having trouble with his automobile and his driver, named Mr. Alvis Gifflet with an exceptionally strong eyeglass prescription, his eyes almost protruding from his face, as if he was an

He had a handsome face with eyes that shone amber, almost emitting a soft golden light, and was lanky in stature, but there was something about him, that drew one in. His stance was open and inviting which starkly contrasted the heightened bravado found in other East Eggers; the last splinters of light from the long summer days, cast a soft aureole around his candid expression. Yet through all of his warmth and effulgence, he had a reserved aspect to his person that I wished him to be rid of, no matter the cost in silver or