Cask of Amontillado (Story, Edgar Allen Poe)

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon
insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however,
that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled
—but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not
only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its
redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him
who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my
good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my
smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point —this Fortunato —although in other regards he was a man to be
respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have
the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and
opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and
gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was
sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; —I was skilful in the Italian vintages
myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I
encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much.
The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was
surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should
never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him —"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking
to-day. But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. " Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."

"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn it is he. He will tell
me —"
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement.
Luchesi—"
"I have no engagement; —come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are
afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed
upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and
drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I
had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not
to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through
several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot
of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. "The pipe,"
he said.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of
intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! —ugh! ugh! ugh! —ugh! ugh! ugh! —ugh! ugh! ugh! —ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected,
admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no
matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi
—"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True —true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily —but you
should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon
the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are
imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
" Nemo me impune lacessit." "Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc.
We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling,
into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize
Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the
river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too
late. Your cough —"

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with
a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement —a grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a
range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in
which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been
lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of
Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side
the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a
mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived
a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It
seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the
interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by
one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the
recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi —"

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed

immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his
progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the
links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much
astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very
damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must
first render you all the little attentions in my power." "The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not
yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken.
Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these
materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of
Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low
moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then
a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard
the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I
might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the
bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without
interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with
my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble
rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form,
seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my
rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the
wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in
volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth
and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a
single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its
destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs
upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of
the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

"Ha! ha! ha! —he! he! he! —a very good joke, indeed —an excellent jest. We will have many a
rich laugh about it at the palazzo —he! he! he! —over our wine —he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! he! he! —he! he! he! —yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be
awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud —
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again —
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came
forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the
catacombs that made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into
its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For
the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

Vocabulary:
Injuries: Insults Borne: Beared, Endured
Impunity: There is no way to retaliate Undressed: Unremedied
Retribution: Retaliation Immolation: To become the victim
Madness: Craziness Motley: Colorful Clothing
Amontillado: A type of wine Accosted: Approached with hostility
Nitre: White powdery mineral Roquelaire: Knee length cloak
Palazzo: Mansion Flambeaux: Torches
Catacombs: Vaults or tombs Rheum: Mucous
Nemo me impune lacessit: No one attacks me with impunity.
Medoc: Red Wine Puncheons: Large Cask (80 gallons)
flagon of De Grave: Flagon is container of wine, De Grave is of the Grave region
Fettered: Restrained, Chained Ejaculated: Sudden yell, exclamation
Rapier: Small sword In pace requiescat!: Rest in Peace!

Questions:
Because the narrator mentions that he will take revenge on Fortunato and that Fortunato is a
connoisseur of wine, what can the reader assume about the narrator's plan for revenge?
The narrator will somehow use Fortunato's love of wine against him as part of the revenge plot.

In what way can Fortunato's costume foreshadow what will happen to him?
The narrator will make a fool out of Fortunato, so it is appropriate that he is already dressed as
a jester.

What can the reader determine about the narrator's personality based on the explicit orders he
had given the attendants of the house?
He told them to stay at the house because he knew they would disobey the orders, so the
readers know that the narrator has good understanding of human nature.

Earlier in the story, Fortunato did not believe that Montresor was a mason. Would Fortunato
believe Montresor now?
Fortunato will believe that Montresor is a mason now because Montresor is building a brick wall
around Fortunato as he is chained up.

Theme: A deeper meaning or moral to the story.

EXAMPLE: "LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD"

Think about "Little Red Riding Hood." Remember how much trouble Red got into because she
wandered through the woods alone? Remember how she told a "stranger" (the Wolf) where she
was going?
We could say that one theme of this story is, "Never talk to strangers." Or, we could say "Never
travel alone."

EXAMPLE: THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET

When we try to find the theme of a piece of literature, we have to look for repeated clues. For
example, in the classic tale, The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, readers are reminded frequently
that the main characters are youthful. So, we could say that one theme of this play is "Quick
decisions made by young people often lead to tragedy."
Notice the theme examples for "Little Red Riding Hood" and The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet
are written as statements, rather than in one word. A theme statement should describe the
general meaning of the work, but not include specific references to characters, events, or
actions.

SETTING
Let's talk "setting." Your story has to unfold somewhere, so your goal is to make your reader see
and feel exactly what the intended image is.
Is it an eerie place?
A dramatic place?
An exciting place?
Whatever it is. Wherever it is. Put your reader right in the middle of it. With words.
(Descriptive, Figurative Language.)

CHARACTERIZATION
How about "characterization?" No one cares about a story if they don't care about the
characters in it.
So you have to give them personalities. Quirks. Stuff that makes the reader love. Hate.
Empathize. FEEL.
Is your character funny? You could communicate this by using jokes, quick wit, funny remarks,
and unexpected retorts.
What if your character is sad and lonely? How do you write about hopelessness and despair?
Maybe you isolate your character. Give them internal monologues and negative thoughts and
feelings.
Or perhaps your character is supremely awkward. You could show this by having the character
dress oddly; say random things; even react to things in the exact opposite manner one would
expect.
Ultimately, how your character's personality shines through is up to you. But shine is exactly
what it should do.

IRONY AND SARCASM

And now for "Irony" and "sarcasm"—great ways to help develop your characters and to enhance
your story's impact on the reader.
Irony is sometimes funny. Sometimes shocking. Always unexpected. It's the ridiculousness
between what you think is supposed to happen and what actually happens.
Like someone studies hard for a test only to find that it's open book.
Or a guy heads out on a ski trip, gets to the slopes, and discovers there's no snow.
Sarcasm is also unexpected, but typically refers to remarks that mean the opposite of what they
seem to say. Plus, it's generally used to mock someone or something. So we've all used it
before!
Say the poor guy in the ironic skiing situation gets out of his car, takes a look at the barren,
snowless slope, and says, "Now that's some sweet powder."
He's clearly being sarcastic being that there is no powder in sight.

Irony is when the sentence indicates something than it actually means. It can be expressed in
three types, as shown below.
Verbal Irony: Someone says one thing but means another, similar to sarcasm but sarcasm is
typically meaner and derogatory.
Situational Irony: Something that happens is completely unexpected and uncharacteristic of the
patterns followed before.
Dramatic Irony: An audience knows something the characters do not. Creates suspense or
humor.

RESOLUTION
The end.
Well, that wasn't a good ending at all, was it? There was no resolution. The way a story ends
often determines the impact it leaves with its readers.
As an author, you have to decide how your story will resolve.
Will it have a "gives you cold chills" finale? Ending in an exciting way?
Will it have a happy ending with your characters living happily ever after, all their most sparkly
dreams fulfilled?
Or will it end in tragedy, with death, sadness, or utter despair?
However you choose to resolve your story, remember—it's the last thing your audience will read
and probably the first thing they'll remember. Make it count.

Three parts of Narrative essay: Beginning, Middle, End.

Use a graphic organizer to secure these and plan, this is important to show logical progression
and sequence of events.

A narrative essay is a type of essay that has a single motif, or a central point, around which the
whole narrative revolves. All incidents, happenings, and characters revolve around a single
motif presented in the narrative. A narrative essay is similar to a simple five-paragraph essay, in
that it has the same format.
(Creative writing but with rules of an essay, related to an existing theme or piece of literature.)

Establish the setting quickly so readers can orient themselves to the text.
Introduce the characters individually in order to differentiate between them.
Use dialogue instead of paragraphs whenever it will create a more vivid image for the reader.
Use plenty of descriptive words to provide a "word picture" for the reader.
Never give away the ending right from the beginning. Allow suspense to build.
 Dialogue Tips Don’t do this Do this

Begin a quotation with a "hi! How are you today?" "Hi! How are you today?"
capital letter

Keep punctuation marks at Asher replied, "Didn’t we Asher replied, "Didn’t we

the end of the quotation compete against that team compete against that team
inside the quotation marks last week"? last week?"

Begin a new paragraph each "Are you going to swim "Are you going to swim
time a new character speaks practice today?" Addie asked. practice today?" Addie asked.
"Yes," Asher replied. "Yes," Asher replied.
"Bummer!" "Bummer!"

Avoid overusing "say, says, Addie says, "You swim too Aggravated, Addie shouted,
or said" much!" "You swim too much!"
Asher said, "I know, but I Feeling defensive, Asher
won’t improve my times if I retorted with, "I know, but I
don’t practice every day." won’t improve my times if I
don’t practice every day."

Use strong verbs "What about swimming "What about swimming,"

makes it the best full body Addie inquired, "makes it the
workout?" Addie asked. best full body workout?"

Sensory Details:
Sensory details include sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. Writers employ the five senses to
engage a reader's interest. If you want your writing to jump off the page, then bring your reader
into the world you are creating.

Examples

Sight
- flash of lights in the night sky
- deep blue of the ocean
- the roads had begun to glisten underneath headlights
- the sun was setting behind low, gray-blue storm clouds
- a heavenly hue to the layers of ice and snow accumulating on rooftops and tree limbs.
- her shadow shaky behind a slight flame stemming from a candle she carried
- sparks lit up the dusk of day
- a blinking red light from the truck’s turn-signal illuminated our darkened home
Sound
- The walls shook and vibrated like the tail of a rattlesnake
- Ice crackled and pinged against the family room window
- Wind swirled around our beach house whistling loudly to a terrible tune
- The television buzzed as it shut off, and the furnace sighed one last time before the house
fell silent.
- The cracking of wood splitting punctuated each burst of fire like an exclamation point.
- the sounds of emergency sirens awakened the still roads
- the howling of wind and branches creaking under the weight of ice
Smell
- sweet aroma of baking cornbread
- cinnamon-scented candle
- pungent odor of smoke.
- salty beach air
- rotting leaves and crispness of air
Touch
- We sat still, huddled underneath the quilt
- Car tires gripped the ice with fearful intensity
- The power lines, heavy from the thickness of ice had snapped
- soft tufts of fur
- stick my toes in the warm and grainy sand
Taste
- ice-cold strawberries
- tall, frosted glass of sweet yet bitter lemonade
- salty chips
- juicy tartness of orange
- rancid butter

The Great Gatsby (Honors)

The Great Gatsby is a story told by Nick Carraway, who was once Gatsby's neighbor, and he
tells the story sometime after 1922, when the incidents that fill the book take place. As the story
opens, Nick has just moved from the Midwest to West Egg, Long Island, seeking his fortune as
a bond salesman. Shortly after his arrival, Nick travels across the Sound to the more
fashionable East Egg to visit his cousin Daisy Buchanan and her husband, Tom, a hulking,
imposing man whom Nick had known in college. There he meets professional golfer Jordan
Baker. The Buchanans and Jordan Baker live privileged lives, contrasting sharply in sensibility
and luxury with Nick's more modest and grounded lifestyle. When Nick returns home that
evening, he notices his neighbor, Gatsby, mysteriously standing in the dark and stretching his
arms toward the water, and a solitary green light across the Sound.

One day, Nick is invited to accompany Tom, a blatant adulterer, to meet his mistress, Myrtle
Wilson, a middle-class woman whose husband runs a modest garage and gas station in the
valley of ashes, a desolate and run-down section of town that marks the convergence of the city
and the suburbs. After the group meets and journeys into the city, Myrtle phones friends to come
over and they all spend the afternoon drinking at Myrtle and Tom's apartment. The afternoon is
filled with drunken behavior and ends ominously with Myrtle and Tom fighting over Daisy, his
wife. Drunkenness turns to rage and Tom, in one deft movement, breaks Myrtle's nose.

Following the description of this incident, Nick turns his attention to his mysterious neighbor,
who hosts weekly parties for the rich and fashionable. Upon Gatsby's invitation (which is
noteworthy because rarely is anyone ever invited to Gatsby's parties — they just show up,
knowing they will not be turned away), Nick attends one of the extravagant gatherings. There,
he bumps into Jordan Baker, as well as Gatsby himself. Gatsby, it turns out, is a gracious host,
but yet remains apart from his guest — an observer more than a participant — as if he is
seeking something. As the party winds down, Gatsby takes Jordan aside to speak privately.
Although the reader isn't specifically told what they discuss, Jordan is greatly amazed by what
she's learned.

As the summer unfolds, Gatsby and Nick become friends and Jordan and Nick begin to see
each other on a regular basis, despite Nick's conviction that she is notoriously dishonest (which
offends his sensibilities because he is "one of the few honest people" he has ever met). Nick
and Gatsby journey into the city one day and there Nick meets Meyer Wolfshiem, one of
Gatsby's associates and Gatsby's link to organized crime. On that same day, while having tea
with Jordan Baker, Nick learns the amazing story that Gatsby told her the night of his party.
Gatsby, it appears, is in love with Daisy Buchanan. They met years earlier when he was in the
army but could not be together because he did not yet have the means to support her. In the
intervening years, Gatsby made his fortune, all with the goal of winning Daisy back. He bought
his house so that he would be across the Sound from her and hosted the elaborate parties in
the hopes that she would notice. It has come time for Gatsby to meet Daisy again, face-to-face,
and so, through the intermediary of Jordan Baker, Gatsby asks Nick to invite Daisy to his little
house where Gatsby will show up unannounced.

The day of the meeting arrives. Nick's house is perfectly prepared, due largely to the generosity
of the hopeless romantic Gatsby, who wants every detail to be perfect for his reunion with his
lost love. When the former lovers meet, their reunion is slightly nervous, but shortly, the two are
once again comfortable with each other, leaving Nick to feel an outsider in the warmth the two
people radiate. As the afternoon progresses, the three move the party from Nick's house to
Gatsby's, where he takes special delight in showing Daisy his meticulously decorated house
and his impressive array of belongings, as if demonstrating in a very tangible way just how far
out of poverty he has traveled.

At this point, Nick again lapses into memory, relating the story of Jay Gatsby. Born James Gatz
to "shiftless and unsuccessful farm people," Gatsby changed his name at seventeen, about the
same time he met Dan Cody. Cody would become Gatsby's mentor, taking him on in "a vague
personal capacity" for five years as he went three times around the Continent. By the time of
Cody's death, Gatsby had grown into manhood and had defined the man he would become.
Never again would he acknowledge his meager past; from that point on, armed with a fabricated
family history, he was Jay Gatsby, entrepreneur.

Moving back to the present, we discover that Daisy and Tom will attend one of Gatsby's parties.
Tom, of course, spends his time chasing women, while Daisy and Gatsby sneak over to Nick's
yard for a moment's privacy while Nick, accomplice in the affair, keeps guard. After the
Buchanans leave, Gatsby tells Nick of his secret desire: to recapture the past. Gatsby, the
idealistic dreamer, firmly believes the past can be recaptured in its entirety. Gatsby then goes on
to tell what it is about his past with Daisy that has made such an impact on him.

As the summer unfolds, Gatsby and Daisy's affair begins to grow and they see each other
regularly. On one fateful day, the hottest and most unbearable of the summer, Gatsby and Nick
journey to East Egg to have lunch with the Buchanans and Jordan Baker. Oppressed by the
heat, Daisy suggests they take solace in a trip to the city. No longer hiding her love for Gatsby,
Daisy pays him special attention and Tom deftly picks up on what's going on. As the party
prepares to leave for the city, Tom fetches a bottle of whiskey. Tom, Nick, and Jordan drive in
Gatsby's car, while Gatsby and Daisy drive Tom's coupe. Low on gas, Tom stops Gatsby's car at
Wilson's gas station, where he sees that Wilson is not well. Like Tom, who has just learned of
Daisy's affair, Wilson has just learned of Myrtle's secret life — although he does not know who
the man is — and it has made him physically sick. Wilson announces his plans to take Myrtle
out West, much to Tom's dismay. Tom has lost a wife and a mistress all in a matter of an hour.
Absorbed in his own fears, Tom hastily drives into the city.

The group ends up at the Plaza hotel, where they continue drinking, moving the day closer and
closer to its tragic end. Tom, always a hot-head, begins to badger Gatsby, questioning him as to
his intentions with Daisy. Decidedly tactless and confrontational, Tom keeps harping on Gatsby
until the truth comes out: Gatsby wants Daisy to admit she's never loved Tom but that, instead,
she has always loved him. When Daisy is unable to do this, Gatsby declares that Daisy is going
to leave Tom. Tom, though, understands Daisy far better than Gatsby does and knows she won't
leave him: His wealth and power, matured through generations of privilege, will triumph over
Gatsby's newly found wealth. In a gesture of authority, Tom orders Daisy and Gatsby to head
home in Gatsby's car. Tom, Nick, and Jordan follow.

As Tom's car nears Wilson's garage, they can all see that some sort of accident has occurred.
Pulling over to investigate, they learn that Myrtle Wilson, Tom's mistress, has been hit and killed
by a passing car that never bothered to stop, and it appears to have been Gatsby's car. Tom,
Jordan, and Nick continue home to East Egg. Nick, now disgusted by the morality and behavior
of the people with whom he has been on friendly terms, meets Gatsby outside of the
Buchanans' house where he is keeping watch for Daisy. With a few well-chosen questions, Nick
learns that Daisy, not Gatsby, was driving the car, although Gatsby confesses he will take all the
blame. Nick, greatly agitated by all that he has experienced during the day, continues home, but
an overarching feeling of dread haunts him.
Nearing dawn the next morning, Nick goes to Gatsby's house. While the two men turn the house
upside down looking for cigarettes, Gatsby tells Nick more about how he became the man he is
and how Daisy figured into his life. Later that morning, while at work, Nick is unable to
concentrate. He receives a phone call from Jordan Baker, but is quick to end the discussion —
and thereby the friendship. He plans to take an early train home and check on Gatsby.

The action then switches back to Wilson who, distraught over his wife's death, sneaks out and
goes looking for the driver who killed Myrtle. Nick retraces Wilson's journey, which placed him,
by early afternoon, at Gatsby's house. Wilson murders Gatsby and then turns the gun on
himself.

After Gatsby's death, Nick is left to help make arrangements for his burial. What is most
perplexing, though, is that no one seems overly concerned with Gatsby's death. Daisy and Tom
mysteriously leave on a trip and all the people who so eagerly attended his parties, drinking his
liquor and eating his food, refuse to become involved. Even Meyer Wolfshiem, Gatsby's
business partner, refuses to publicly mourn his friend's death. A telegram from Henry C. Gatz,
Gatsby's father, indicates he will be coming from Minnesota to bury his son. Gatsby's funeral
boasts only Nick, Henry Gatz, a few servants, the postman, and the minister at the graveside.
Despite all his popularity during his lifetime, in his death, Gatsby is completely forgotten.

Nick, completely disillusioned with what he has experienced in the East, prepares to head back
to the Midwest. Before leaving, he sees Tom Buchanan one last time. When Tom notices him
and questions him as to why he didn't want to shake hands, Nick curtly offers "You know what I
think of you." Their discussion reveals that Tom was the impetus behind Gatsby's death. When
Wilson came to his house, he told Wilson that Gatsby owned the car that killed Myrtle. In Tom's
mind, he had helped justice along. Nick, disgusted by the carelessness and cruel nature of Tom,
Daisy, and those like them, leaves Tom, proud of his own integrity.

On the last night before leaving, Nick goes to Gatsby's mansion, then to the shore where
Gatsby once stood, arms outstretched toward the green light. The novel ends prophetically, with
Nick noting how we are all a little like Gatsby, boats moving up a river, going forward but
continually feeling the pull of the past.