The Party at West Egg
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The summer nights in West Egg are alive with blue music. By seven o'clock, the orchestra has arrived at my neighbor's colossal mansion—no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols.
The halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colors, and hair shorn in strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside.
I have been invited—a rarity among the crashing guests—but I have yet to meet my host, Mr. Jay Gatsby. I feel a bit lost in the sea of strangers.