《了不起的盖茨比》 村上春树*喜爱的作家 二十世纪百部**英语小说第二名 莱昂纳多?迪卡普里奥主演**同名电影 **的文学经典读物 *好的语言学习读本

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9

　　F. S. 菲茨杰拉德 （1896—1940）， 美国小说作家，是“迷惘的一代”的代表作家，也是“爵士乐时代”的桂冠诗人。他短暂的一生中完成了四部长篇小说以及一百五十多篇短篇小说。其代表作《了不起的盖茨比》生动地展示了大萧条时期美国上层社会“荒原时代”的精神面貌，被誉为二十世纪最伟大的英文小说之一。

　　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 any one,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.’
　　He didn't say any more but we've always been unusually communicative n a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I'm 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 don't care what it's 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 t 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