Birthright

Discussion in 'Fictitious Stories' started by B_Gravedancer, Oct 14, 2008.

  1. B_Gravedancer

    B_Gravedancer New Member

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    This is my first attempt at erotic story writing, give me feed back

    == Part 1 ==

    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 in 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 at 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.

    My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.

    I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye—es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.

    The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
    It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.

    “How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
    I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
    And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

    There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

    More to come!
     
  2. Elro

    Verified Gold Member

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    Um... Hello ? F. Scott Fitzgerald anyone ?
    Did you want to see if anyone would recognize this one ?
    Well, we did.
    It's pretty easy, since the name appears early on, and the style is very recognizable.
    And english isn't even my first language.

    Honestly, it's a nice joke, but I don't think this text belongs here... unless you plan on expanding on that story and giving Gatsby a huge cock, another way to attract guests to his mansion...
    And in any case, that would just be a pastiche.

    So... for those who want more of this story, well, just buy the book. It's a classic.
     
  3. tgw

    tgw
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    Great book! One of my favorites.
     
  4. Mr. Sensitive

    Mr. Sensitive Member

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    Great start!! I especially liked the part with the Finnish woman.
     
  5. Beauxbatons

    Beauxbatons Member

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    (emphasis added)

    Have you been working out? Because you're certainly pumping irony here...
     
  6. D_Burfield_Bumcleaver

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    I LOVE Great Gatsby!!! *drowns in pool*
     
  7. oregongtaper

    oregongtaper Member

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    I'm thinking that if he does continue this story, it's going to be a damned long thread before he gets done.

    Why someone would post one of the most easily recognisable (not to mention widely read) stories in Am. Lit. as his own writing is a mystery to me. I'd be willing to bet it's a mystery to him too.

    That aside, the key to getting through such self-indulgent prose is to read one sentence, skip the next two, read that sentence, skip two more, and on and on, through the entire book. Direct conversation- back to back quoted talk- is exempted from this rule.
    You'll find that you lose very little of the story that way.
     
  8. Elro

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    Well, yes, Oregongtaper, it's fine if you're reading it for a class (provided that you read the important parts) but you'll enjoy it less if you happen to like the book... If you just don't want to read the stuff but have to anyway, get some cliff-notes or something, and don't bother leap-frogging through the damn thing. Soem books seem to be less self-indulging than some readers.

    Regardless, I'd like to hear what Gravedancer has to say for himself. Is it a joke, is it pastiche, is it simple plagiarizing ? More importantly, what is it doing here ? i don't remember F. Scott Fitzgerald EVER mentioning cock...
     
  9. Shawn777

    Shawn777 New Member

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    Damn, that line is pretty memorable and it's been years since I read that book

    I could always feel sexual energy from that book and the movie with Robert Redford as well.
     
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