Roaring noon. In a well—fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. “Mr. Wolfsheim.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. I took one look at said Mr. Wolfsheim, shaking my hand earnestly, what do “—So him,” “and you think I did?” I inquired politely. “What?” But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid: right, Katspaugh, pay him a penny till he “I ‘all don’t shuts his He shut it then and mouth.’ there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. asked the head waiter. “Highballs?” is a nice restaurant said Mr. Wolfsheim, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the “This here,” ceiling. I like across the street “But better!” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfsheim: too hot over “Yes, highballs,” “It’s there.” and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, full of “Hot “but memories.” place is I asked. “What that?” old Metropole. “The old Mr. Wolfsheim with faces dead and gone. Filled “The Metropole,” brooded gloomily. “Filled with friends gone now forever. I forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal can’t
Roaring noon. In a well—fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man. “Mr. Carraway, this is my friend Mr. Wolfsheim.” A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness. “—So I took one look at him,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, shaking my hand earnestly, “and what do you think I did?” “What?” I inquired politely. But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. “I handed the money to Katspaugh and I sid: ‘all right, Katspaugh, don’t pay him a penny till he shuts his mouth.’ He shut it then and there.” Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. “Highballs?” asked the head waiter. “This is a nice restaurant here,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, looking at the Presbyterian nymphs on the ceiling. “But I like across the street better!” “Yes, highballs,” agreed Gatsby, and then to Mr. Wolfsheim: “It’s too hot over there.” “Hot and small—yes,” said Mr. Wolfsheim, “but full of memories.” “What place is that?” I asked. “The old Metropole. “The old Metropole,” brooded Mr. Wolfsheim gloomily. “Filled with faces dead and gone. Filled with friends gone now forever. I can’t forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal
gatsby-e-text.docx