I.

I am a gravely misunderstood man and have been for a very long time, thanks to a perennial bestseller written by a Manhattan bond salesman turned procurer, one Nicholas Carraway, the author of a deceptive and biased memoir that thinly disguises itself as a pseudonymous novel.

“A sly seed,” is how I first referred to him among my circle when we were at school in New Haven, Class of 1915. He was an insidious character, though with some touch of brilliance that enabled him to disarm even discerning people, usually catching them off-guard, and to insinuate his way into their lives and affairs. Although he liked to claim that we belonged to the same senior social club, no one for a moment considered us part of the same social set.

It was Wednesday, June 7th, a warm breezy evening in 1922 when Carraway dropped by to visit my wife Daisy (who was also his second cousin) and me for drinks and dinner. After graduation, Carraway went off to serve in the War to End All Wars and to Help Save the World for Democracy. I had not seen him since he visited us in Chicago for a few days right after he returned from Europe. He wore his uniform then and I could tell it made an impression on Daisy, though I noticed no decorations. He didn’t speak much about the war, which as a staunch isolationist I opposed. I would become a dedicated supporter of Mr. Republican, Ohio’s great Robert Taft (Yale ’10), who even John F. Kennedy admired for his principles and courage.

I formed the distinct impression that Carraway had seen little combat despite his claim that he was with a machine gun battalion in France. I don’t believe he saw as much action as another of our classmates in the society and a teammate of mine, Archie MacLeish, who rose to be an artillery captain and then, mainly through his left-wing connections, would become Librarian of Congress. Many years later, Daisy and I took in the opening of his play J.B. on Broadway and we exchanged greetings at intermission. I didn’t care for the drama but Daisy thought it was enthralling.

I met Carraway that evening on the front porch. Daisy was inside chatting with her old Louisville friend, the golfer, Jordan Baker. I had just returned from a few practice chukkers at the Meadow Brook Club and was still in riding gear. I had played poorly, the mounts were sluggish, and I’m afraid I was in an irritable mood when Carraway puttered up the drive in a beat-up and dusty 1915 Dodge Model 30. As he got out, I noticed...