There was a kindliness about intoxication - there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings.

I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.

"If it wasn’t for the mist we could see your home across the bay," said Gatsby. "You always have a green light that burns at the end of your dock." Daisy put her arm through his abruptly but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to him, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted things had diminished by one.

That's the whole burden of this novel - the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world that you don't care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory.

His dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him.

Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created - nothing.

But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot.