We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in The Great Gatsby may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them. DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url.
If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed. The Great Gatsby Pdf Full Text Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald by F. We stayed there two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of dead.
I was promoted to be a major, and every Allied government gave me a decoration — even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea! Little Montenegro!
He lifted up the words and nodded at them — with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro's troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people.
It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro's warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.
To my astonishment, the thing had an authentic look. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad — the man on my left is now the Earl of Doncaster. It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand. Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the drawings of his broken heart.
I didn't want you to think I was just some nobody. You see, I usually find myself among strangers because I drift here and there trying to forget the sad thing that happened to me. But Miss Baker has kindly consented to speak to you about this matter.
I hadn't the faintest idea what "this matter" was, but I was more annoyed than interested. I hadn't asked Jordan to tea in order to discuss Mr. Jay Gatsby. I was sure the request would be something utterly fantastic, and for a moment I was sorry I'd ever set foot upon his overpopulated lawn. He wouldn't say another word.
His correctness grew on him as we neared the city. We passed Port Roosevelt, where there was a glimpse of red-belted ocean- going ships, and sped along a cobbled slum lined with the dark, undeserted saloons of the faded-gilt nineteen-hundreds. Then the valley of ashes opened out on both sides of us, and I had a glimpse of Mrs.
Wilson straining at the garage pump with panting vitality as we went by. With fenders spread like wings we, scattered light through half Astoria — only half, for as we twisted among the pillars of the elevated I heard the familiar "]ug-]ug-spatr of a motorcycle, and a frantic policeman rode alongside.
We slowed down. Taking a white card from his wallet, he waved it before the man's eyes. Excuse me! Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money.
The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all" the mystery and the beauty in the world. A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds, and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of southeastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby's splendid car was included in their somber holiday.
As we crossed Blackwell's Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry. Roaring noon. In a well-fanned Forty-second Street cellar I met Gatsby for lunch. Blinking away the brightness of the street outside, my eyes picked him out obscurely in the anteroom, talking to another man.
A small, flat-nosed Jew raised his large head and regarded me with two fine growths of hair which luxuriated in either nostril. After a moment I discovered his tiny eyes in the half-darkness.
Wolfsheim, shaking my hand earnestly, "and what do you think I did? But evidently he was not addressing me, for he dropped my hand and covered Gatsby with his expressive nose. Gatsby took an arm of each of us and moved forward into the restaurant, whereupon Mr. Wolfsheim swallowed a new sentence he was starting and lapsed into a somnambulatory abstraction. Wolfsheim: "It's too hot over there. Wolfsheim gloomily. Filled with fiends gone now forever. I can't forget so long as I live the night they shot Rosy Rosenthal there.
It was six of us at the table, and Rosy had eat and drunk a lot all evening. When it was almost morning the waiter came up to him with a funny look and says somebody wants to speak to him outside. Wolfsheim's nose flashed at me indignantly. A succulent hash arrived, and Mr. Wolfsheim, for getting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy.
His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room—he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table. Why has it all got to come through Miss Baker? Suddenly he looked at his watch, jumped up, and hurried from the room, leaving me with Mr. Wolfsheim at the table. Wolfsheim, following him with his eyes.
Handsome to look at and a perfect gentleman. But I knew I had discovered a man of fine breeding after I talked with him an hour. I said to myself: There's the kind of man you'd like to take home and introduce to your mother and sister. I hadn't been looking at them, but I did now. They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. He would never so much as look at a friend's wife. When the subject of this instinctive trust returned to the table and sat down Mr. Wolfsheim drank his coffee with a jerk and got to his feet.
Wolfsheim raised his hand in a sort of benediction. As he shook hands and turned away his tragic nose was trembling. I wondered if I had said anything to offend him. He's quite a character around New York — a denizen of Broadway. No, he's a gambler. The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World's Series had been fixed in , but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as a thing that merely happened, the end of some inevitable chain.
It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people—with the single-mindedness of a burglar blowing a safe. I insisted on paying the check. As the' waiter brought my change I caught sight of Tom Buchanan across the crowded room. They shook hands briefly, and a strained, unfamiliar look of embarrassment came over Gatsby's face.
Gatsby, but he was no longer there. One October day in nineteen-seventeen — said Jordan Baker that afternoon, sitting up very straight on a straight chair in the tea-garden at the Plaza Hotel. I was happier on the lawns because I had on shoes from England with rubber nobs on the soles that bit into the soft ground.
I had on a new plaid skirt also that blew a little in the wind, and whenever this happened the red, white, and blue banners in front of all the houses stretched out stiff and said tut- tut-tut-tut, in a disapproving way. The largest of the banners and the largest of the lawns belonged to Daisy Fay's house. She was just eighteen, two years older than me, and by far the most popular of all the young girls in Louisville.
She dressed in white, and had a little white roadster, and all day long the telephone rang in her house and excited young officers from Camp Taylor demanded the privilege of monopolizing her that night.
When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the curb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before.
They were so engrossed in each other that she didn't see me until I was five feet away. I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red Cross and make bandages.
I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she couldn't come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at some time, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn't lay eyes on him again for over four years — even after I'd met him on Long Island I didn't realize it was the same man.
That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn't see Daisy very often. She went with a slightly older crowd — when she went with anyone at all. Wild rumors were circulating about her — how her mother had found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say good-by to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually prevented, but she wasn't on speaking terms with her family for several weeks.
After that she didn't play around with the soldiers any more, but only with a few flat-footed, short-sighted young men in town, who couldn't get into the army at all. By the next autumn she was gay again, gay as ever. She had a debut after the Armistice, and in February she was presumably engaged to a man from New Orleans.
In June she married Tom Buchanan of Chicago, with more pomp and circumstance than Louisville ever knew before. He came down with a hundred people in four private cars, and hired a whole floor of the Muhlbach Hotel, and the day before the wedding he gave her a string of pearls valued at three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I was a bridesmaid. I came into her room half an hour before the bridal dinner, and found her lying on her bed as lovely as the June night in her flowered dress — and as drunk as a monkey.
She had a bottle of Sauterne in one hand and a letter in the other. I was scared, I can tell you; I'd never seen a girl like that before. Tell 'em all Daisy's change' her mine. Say: 'Daisy's change' her mine! She began to cry — she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother's maid, and we locked the door and got her into a cold bath.
She wouldn't let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up into a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow.
But she didn't say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over. Next day at five o'clock she married Tom Buchanan without so much as a shiver, and started off on a three months' trip to the South Seas. I saw them in Santa Barbara when they came back, and I thought I'd never seen a girl so mad about her husband.
If he left the room for a minute she'd look around uneasily, and say: "Where's Tom gone? She used to sit on the sand with his head in her lap by the hour, rubbing her fingers over his eyes and looking at him with unfathomable delight. It was touching to see them together — it made you laugh in a hushed, fascinated way. That was in August. A week after I left Santa Barbara Tom ran into a wagon on the Ventura road one night, and ripped a front wheel off his car. The girl who was with him got into the papers, too, because her arm was broken — she was one of the chambermaids in the Santa Barbara Hotel.
The next April Daisy had her little girl, and they went to France for a year. I saw them one spring in Cannes, and later in Deauville, and then they came back to Chicago to settle down. Daisy was popular in Chicago, as you know. They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation. Perhaps because she doesn't drink. It's a great advantage not to drink among hard-drinking people. You can hold your tongue, and, moreover, you can time any little irregularity of your own so that everybody else is so blind that they don't see or care.
Perhaps Daisy never went in for amour at all — and yet there's something in that voice of hers. Well, about six weeks ago, she heard the name Gatsby for the first time in years. It was when I asked you — do you remember? After you had gone home she came into my room and woke me up, and said: "What Gatsby? It wasn't until then that I connected this Gatsby with the officer in her white car. When Jordan Baker had finished telling all this we had left the Plaza for half an hour and were driving in a victoria through Central Park.
The sun had gone down behind the tall apartments of the movie stars in the West Fifties, and the clear voices of little girls already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight:.
Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splendor.
The modesty of the demand shook me. He had waited five years and bought a mansion where he dispensed starlight to casual moths — so that he could "come over" some afternoon to a stranger's garden.
He thought you might be offended. You see, he's a regular tough underneath it all. Then he began asking people casually if they knew her, and I was the first one he found. It was that night he sent for me at his dance, and you should have heard the elaborate way he worked up to it.
Of course, I immediately suggested a luncheon in New York — and I thought he'd go mad:. He doesn't know very much about Tom, though he says he's read a Chicago paper for years just on the chance of catching a glimpse of Daisy's name. It was dark now, and as we dipped under a little bridge I put my arm around Jordan's golden shoulder and drew her toward me and asked her to dinner.
Suddenly I wasn't thinking of Daisy and Gatsby any more, but of this clean, hard, limited person, who dealt in universal scepticism, and who leaned back jauntily just within the circle of my arm. A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired. Gatsby doesn't want her to know. You're just supposed to invite her to tea.
We passed a barrier of dark trees, and then the facade of Fifty-ninth Street, a block of delicate pale light, beamed down into the park. Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms.
Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face. Two o'clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light, which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires. Turning a corner, I saw that it was Gatsby's house, lit from tower to cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into "hide-and-go-seek" or "sardines-in-the-box" with all the house thrown open to the game.
But there wasn't a sound. Only wind in the trees, which blew the wires and made the lights go off and on again as if the house had winked into the darkness. As my taxi groaned away I saw Gatsby walking toward me across his lawn. Let's go to Coney Island, old sport. In my car. I haven't made use of it all summer. We both looked at the grass — there was a sharp line where my ragged lawn ended and the darker, well-kept expanse of his began. I suspected that he meant my grass. At least—" He fumbled with a series of beginnings.
And I thought that if you don't make very much — You're selling bonds, aren't you, old sport? It happens to be a rather confidential sort of thing. I realize now that under different circumstances that conversation might have been one of the crises of my life. But, because the offer was obviously and tactlessly for a service to be rendered, I had no choice except to cut him off there.
He waited a moment longer, hoping I'd begin a conversation, but I was too absorbed to be responsive, so he went unwillingly home. The evening had made me light-headed and happy; I think I walked into a deep sleep as I entered my front door. So I don't know whether or not Gatsby went to Coney Island, or for how many hours he "glanced into rooms" while his house blazed gaudily on.
I called up Daisy from the office next morning, and invited her to come to tea. The day agreed upon was pouring rain. At eleven o'clock a man in a raincoat, dragging a lawn-mower, tapped at my front door and said that Mr. Gatsby had sent him over to cut my grass. This reminded me that I had forgotten to tell my Finn to come back, so I drove into West Egg Village to search for her among soggy whitewashed alleys and to buy some cups and lemons and flowers.
The flowers were unnecessary, for at two o'clock a greenhouse arrived from Gatsby's, with innumerable receptacles to contain it. An hour later the front door opened nervously, and Gatsby, in a white flannel suit, silver shirt, and gold- colored tie, hurried in. I think it was The Journal. Have you got everything you need in the shape of — of tea? I took him into the pantry, where he looked a little reproachfully at the Finn. Together we scrutinized the twelve lemon cakes from the delicatessen shop.
They're fine! The rain cooled about half-past three to a damp mist, through which occasional thin drops swam like dew. Gatsby looked with vacant eyes through a copy of Clay's Economics, starting at the Finnish tread that shook the kitchen floor, and peering toward the bleared windows from time to time as if a series of invisible but alarming happenings were taking place outside. Finally he got up and informed me, in an uncertain voice, that he was going home.
It's too late! He sat down miserably, as if I had pushed him, and simultaneously there was the sound of a motor turning into my lane. We both jumped up, and, a little harrowed myself, I went out into the yard.
Under the dripping bare lilac-trees a large open car was coming up the drive. It stopped. The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic in the rain. I had to follow the sound of it for a moment, up and down, with my ear alone, before any words came through.
A damp streak of hair lay like a dash of blue paint across her cheek, and her hand was wet with glistening drops as I took it to help her from the car. Tell your chauffeur to go far away and spend an hour.
She turned her head as there was a light dignified knocking at the front door. I went out and opened it.
Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes. With his hands still in his coat pockets he stalked by me into the hall, turned sharply as if he were on a wire, and disappeared into the living-room.
It wasn't a bit funny. Aware of the loud beating of my own heart I pulled the door to against the increasing rain. For half a minute there wasn't a sound. Gatsby, his hands still in his pockets, was reclining against the mantelpiece in a strained counterfeit of perfect ease, even of boredom. His head leaned back so far that it rested against the face of a defunct mantelpiece clock, and from this position his distraught eyes stared down at Daisy, who was sitting, frightened but graceful, on the edge of a stiff chair.
His eyes glanced momentarily at me, and his lips parted with an abortive attempt at a laugh. Luckily the clock took this moment to tilt dangerously at the pressure of his head, whereupon he turned and caught it with trembling fingers and set it back in place. Then he sat down, rigidly, his elbow on the arm of the sofa and his chin in his hand. My own face had now assumed a deep tropical burn. I couldn't muster up a single commonplace out of the thousand in my head. The automatic quality of Gatsby's answer set us all back at least another minute.
I had them both on their feet with the desperate suggestion that they help me make tea in the kitchen when the demoniac Finn brought it in on a tray. Amid the welcome confusion of cups and cakes a certain physical decency established itself. However, as calmness wasn't an end in itself, I made an excuse at the first possible moment, and got to my feet.
He followed me wildly into the kitchen, closed the door, and whispered: "Oh, God! Daisy's sitting in there all alone. He raised his hand to stop my words, looked at me with unforgettable reproach, and, opening the door cautiously, went back into the other room.
I walked out the back way—just as Gatsby had when he had made his nervous circuit of the house half an hour before — and ran for a huge black knotted tree, whose massed leaves made a fabric against the rain. Once more it was pouring, and my irregular lawn, well-shaved by Gatsby's gardener, abounded in small muddy swamps and prehistoric marshes. There was nothing to look at from under the tree except Gatsby's enormous house, so I stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour.
Perhaps their refusal took the heart out of his plan to Found a Family — he went into an immediate decline. His children sold his house with the black wreath still on the door. Americans, while occasionally willing to be serfs, have always been obstinate about being peasantry. After half an hour, the sun shone again, and the grocer's automobile rounded Gatsby's drive with the raw material for his servants' dinner — I felt sure he wouldn't eat a spoonful. A maid began opening the upper windows of his house, appeared momentarily in each, and, leaning from a large central bay, spat meditatively into the garden.
It was time I went back. While the rain continued it had seemed like the murmur of their voices, rising and swelling a little now and then with gusts of emotion. But in the new silence I felt that silence had fallen within the house too. I went in — after making every possible noise in the kitchen, short of pushing over the stove — but I don't believe they heard a sound. They were sitting at either end of the couch, looking at each other as if some question had been asked, or was in the air, and every vestige of embarrassment was gone.
Daisy's face was smeared with tears, and when I came in she jumped up and began wiping at it with her handkerchief before a mirror. But there was a change in Gatsby that was simply confounding. He literally glowed; without a word or a gesture of exultation a new well-being radiated from him and filled the little room. I thought for a moment he was going to shake hands. It's stopped raining. Daisy went up-stairs to wash her face — too late I thought with humiliation of my towels — while Gatsby and I waited on the lawn.
I think he hardly knew what he was saying, for when I asked him what business he was in he answered: "That's my affair," before he realized that it wasn't an appropriate reply. But I'm not in either one now. Before I could answer, Daisy came out of the house and two rows of brass buttons on her dress gleamed in the sunlight. People who do interesting things. Celebrated people. With enchanting murmurs Daisy admired this aspect or that of the feudal silhouette against the sky, admired the gardens, the" sparkling odor of jonquils and the frothy odor of hawthorn and plum blossoms and the pale gold odor of kiss-me-at-the-gate.
It was strange to reach the marble steps and find no stir of bright dresses in and out of the door, and hear no sound but bird voices in the trees.
And inside, as we wandered through Marie Antoinette music-rooms and Restoration salons, I felt that there were guests concealed behind every couch and table, under orders to be breathlessly silent until we had passed through.
As Gatsby closed the door of "the Merton College Library" I could have sworn I heard the owl-eyed man break into ghostly laughter. We went up-stairs, through period bedrooms swathed in rose and lavender silk and vivid with new flowers, through dressing-rooms and poolrooms, and bathrooms, with sunken baths — intruding into one chamber where a disheveled man in pajamas was doing liver exercises on the floor.
It was Mr. Klipspringer, the "boarder. Finally we came to Gatsby's own apartment, a bedroom and a bath, and an Adam study, where we sat down and drank a glass of some Chartreuse he took from a cupboard in the wall. He hadn't once ceased looking at Daisy, and I think he revalued everything in his house according to the measure of response it drew from her well-loved eyes. Sometimes, too, he stared around at his possessions in a dazed way, as though in her actual and astounding presence none of it was any longer real.
Once he nearly toppled down a flight of stairs. His bedroom was the simplest room of all — except where the dresser was garnished with a toilet set of pure dull gold. Daisy took the brush with delight, and smoothed her hair, whereupon Gatsby sat down and shaded his eyes and began to laugh. He had passed visibly through two states and was entering upon a third. After his embarrassment and his unreasoning joy he was consumed with wonder at her presence.
Now, in the reaction, he was running down like an overwound clock. Recovering himself in a minute he opened for us two hulking patent cabinets which held his massed suits and dressing-gowns and ties, and his shirts, piled like bricks in stacks a dozen high.
He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall. He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-colored disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher — shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of Indian blue.
Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily. After the house, we were to see the grounds and the swimming-pool, and the hydroplane and the midsummer flowers—but outside Gatsby's window it began to rain again, so we stood in a row looking at the corrugated surface of the Sound.
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 her, 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 objects had diminished by one. I began to walk about the room, examining various indefinite objects in the half darkness. A large photograph of an elderly man in yachting costume attracted me, hung on the wall over his desk. There was a small picture of Gatsby, also in yachting costume, on the bureau — Gatsby with his head thrown back defiantly — taken apparently when he was about eighteen.
You never told me you had a pompadour — or a yacht. They stood side by side examining it. I was going to ask to see the rubies when the phone rang, and Gatsby took up the receiver. Well, I can't talk now. I can't talk now, old sport. I said a small town. He must know what a small town is. Well, he's no use to us if Detroit is his idea of a small town. The rain was still falling, but the darkness had parted in the west, and there was a pink and golden billow of foamy clouds above the sea.
I tried to go then, but they wouldn't hear of it; perhaps my presence made them feel more satisfactorily alone. He went out of the room calling "Ewing! He was now decently clothed in a sport shirt, open at the neck, sneakers, and duck trousers of a nebulous hue. Klipspringer, in a spasm of embarrassment. Then I got up. He flipped a switch. The gray windows disappeared as the house glowed full of light. In the music-room Gatsby turned on a solitary lamp beside the piano.
He lit Daisy's cigarette from a trembling match, and sat down with her on a couch far across the room, where there was no light save what the gleaming floor bounced in from the hall. When Klipspringer had played The Love Nest he turned around on the bench and searched unhappily for Gatsby in the gloom.
I told you I couldn't play. I'm all out of prac—". Outside the wind was loud and there was a faint flow of thunder along the Sound. It was the hour of a profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air. As I went over to say good-by I saw that the expression of bewilderment had come back into Gats-by's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness.
Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams—not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion.
It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn't be over-dreamed — that voice was a deathless song. They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn't know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life.
Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out "to see. It was a random shot, and yet the reporter's instinct was right. Internet Archive's 25th Anniversary Logo. Search icon An illustration of a magnifying glass. User icon An illustration of a person's head and chest. Sign up Log in. Web icon An illustration of a computer application window Wayback Machine Texts icon An illustration of an open book.
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