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20世纪二十年代的美国,空气里弥漫着欢歌与纵饮的气息。一个偶然的机会,穷职员尼克闯人了挥金如土的大富翁盖茨比隐秘的世界,惊讶地发现,他内心惟一的牵绊竟是河对岸那盏小小的绿灯灯影婆娑中,住着他心爱的黛西。然而,冰冷的现实容不下飘渺的梦,到头来,盖茨比心中的女神只不过是凡尘俗世的物质女郎。当一切真相大白,盖茨比的悲剧人生亦如烟花般,璀璨只是一瞬,幻灭才是永恒。菲茨杰拉德起落颠沛的人生正是盖茨比的写照,《了不起的盖茨比》生动地反映了上世纪二十年代美国梦的破灭,展示了大萧条时朗美国上层社会荒原时代的精神面貌。
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| 目錄:
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Chapter 1 第一章 1
Chapter 2 第二章 30
Chapter 3 第三章 52
Chapter 4 第四章 81
Chapter 5 第五章 109
Chapter 6 第六章 131
Chapter 7 第七章 152
Chapter 8 第八章 199
Chapter 9 第九章 220
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that Ive been turning over in my mind ever since.
Whenever you feel like criticizing any one, he told me, just remember that all the people in this world havent had the advantages that youve had.
He didnt say any more but weve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence Im inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I dont care what its founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the creative temperament it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
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