The Death Of The Great Gatsby By F. Scott Fitzgerald Essay
Nothing had changed. I was still sitting up against the tree, my legs pulled up close to me. Against my chest was Victor Fitzgerald, still nothing more than a feral skunk, being gently sheltered and embraced by my two arms.
He was almost crying, whimpering in defeat, more like it. It was impossible to make a connection between the proud general who had caused so much trouble and the moaning lump of fur in my arms, but somehow, they were the same person. Somehow he had peeled off his shell.
I rolled him a little bit onto his back, holding him so that we could face each each. I kept my presence as much as I could, doing what I could do to calm him down. My eyes were almost closed, but my head was tilted down and looking at him, smiling. In an interesting turn of events, I discovered that I had never seen anyone, especially not Victor, in this way. Due to our size ration, I felt more than a little motherly. He seemed to almost be like a little child, a boy in need of quieting down and tender care. "Hey, there..." I comforted. "It will be okay... I promise..."
He quieted down a little. "Oh," he whispered, "What a pathetic little lowlife I 've become in no time at all..."
I smiled, hugging him even tighter. "You 're not pathetic and you 're anything but a lowlife, you 're only out of experience when it comes to being cared for... I think you 'll come to understand that humility doesn 't work the way everyone says it does. Those who put themselves…