Arrival at West Egg
In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. "Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had."
It is the spring of 1922. I have come East to learn the bond business. I found a house in West Egg, the less fashionable of the two "eggs" on Long Island. My house is a small eyesore, squeezed between two huge mansions. The one on my right is a colossal affair—a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a marble swimming pool and more than forty acres of lawn. It is Mr. Gatsby’s mansion.
Across the courtesy bay, the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glitter along the water. Tonight, I have been invited to dinner there by my cousin, Daisy Buchanan, and her husband, Tom.