The Great Gatsby - Chapter Eight | Full Audiobook - Chapter by Chapter

Welcome back to chapter by Chapter, the audio book experience. We're continuing The Great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. If this is your first time here, start from the beginning of this season and follow Nick Carraway's story from the very start. And if you've been with us since Chapter 7, welcome back. The crash happened, Myrtle is dead, Daisy is back behind the walls of East Egg, and Gatsby is still standing on the lawn in the dark, watching her window, waiting for a light that never comes back on.

But this chapter doesn't open with action. It opens with confession. Gatsby finally talks about Dan Cody, about that October night, about everything he was and everything he pretended to be. He lays it all out for Nick like a man who knows the story is almost over. And across town, in the ash heaps, George Wilson is also piercing something together. By the end of this chapter, the dream is done. Quick word from our sponsor, Wexley Pro. It's a mobile publishing studio that lets you write, format and export professional epubs and PDFs straight from your phone.

And it has a built in provenance layer that proves you wrote what you wrote from the first keystroke. For writers and creators who care about owning their work, Early Access is open right now at App dot Wexley dot pro Follow the show so you never miss a chapter and drop a comment with the classic you want us to read next. Now sit back and let's continue the story. Chapter 8. I couldn't sleep the entire night. A foghorn droned endlessly on the sound, and I tossed and turned, caught between grotesque reality and wild, terrifying dreams.

Just before dawn, I heard a taxi pull up Gatsby's drive, and I leapt out of bed to get dressed. I felt an urgent need to warn him, knowing that morning would be too late. As I crossed his lawn, I noticed his front door was still open, and there he was, leaning against a table in the hall, weighed down by either dejection or sleep. Nothing happened, he said. Weekly. I waited, and around 4:00 she came to the window, stood there for a moment, then turned off the light. His house had never seemed so vast to me as it did that night.

While we searched the grand rooms for cigarettes, we pushed aside curtains that felt like pavilions and groped along endless stretches of dark wall for light. At one point I stumbled with a splash onto the keys of a ghostly piano. Dust was inexplicably everywhere, and the rooms were musty, as if they hadn't been aired in many days. I discovered the humidor on a table I didn't recognize, containing 2 cigarettes that had gone stale and dry. We flung open the French windows of the drawing room and sat there, smoking into the night.

You should leave, I suggested. They'll likely trace your car. Leave now, old sport, Head to Atlantic City for a week, or maybe up to Montreal. He refused to entertain the idea. He couldn't possibly leave Daisy until he knew what her plans were. He was clinging to a last shred of hope, and I couldn't bring myself to disillusion him. That night he shared with me the peculiar tale of his youth with Dan Cody. He told me, because Jay Gatsby had shattered like glass against Tom's harsh malice, and the long hidden spectacle had come to an end.

I believe he would have confessed anything at that point without holding back, but his mind was on Daisy. She was the first truly nice girl he had ever known. In various undisclosed roles he had encountered people like her, but there was always an invisible barrier between them. He found her thrillingly desirable. Initially he visited her home with other officers from Camp Taylor, then on his own. It astounded him. He had never been in such a magnificent house before, but what infused it with a breathless intensity was Daisy's presence.

It was as ordinary to her as his tent at camp was to him. There was an alluring mystery about the place, a sense of upstairs bedrooms more exquisite and serene than any others, of lively and joyful happenings unfolding within its halls, and of romances that were not stale relics preserved in lavender, but fresh, alive, and infused with the spirit of this year's gleaming cars and dances whose flowers were still vibrant. The fact that many men had loved Daisy before him only heightened her allure in his eyes.

He felt their presence throughout the house, filling the air with the lingering shades and echoes of emotions still pulsing with life. Yet he understood that his presence in Daisy's home was a monumental fluke. No matter how grand his future as Jay Gatsby might be, at that moment, he was a young man with no wealth and no history, and at any instant the unseen mantle of his uniform might slip away. So he seized the moment. He took whatever he could, greedily and without scruples. Eventually he took Daisy 1 quiet October night took her because he had no legitimate claim even to hold her hand.

He might have loathed himself for it, for he had certainly won her under false pretenses. Not that he had flaunted imaginary riches, but he had intentionally given Daisy a sense of security. He allowed her to believe he was someone from a similar social standing, fully capable of providing for her. In truth, he had none of those assurances. No supportive family behind him, and he was subject to the whims of an indifferent government that could send him anywhere in the world. But he did not loathe himself, and things did not turn out as he had expected.

He had likely planned to take what he could and leave, but now he found himself chasing an elusive dream. He understood that Daisy was remarkable, yet he hadn't grasped just how remarkable a nice girl could be. She disappeared into her opulent home, into her rich, vibrant life, leaving Gatsby with nothing. He felt as though he were bound to her, and that was everything. When they met again two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who felt somehow deceived. Her porch glowed with the purchased luxury of Starlight.

The Wicker of the settee creaked stylishly as she turned toward him, and he kissed her curious and beautiful mouth. She had caught a cold, which made her voice even huskier and more enchanting, and Gatsby was acutely aware of the youth and mystery that wealth captures and preserves, of the freshness of many garments, and of Daisy shining like silver, secure and proud above the heated struggles of the poor. I can't tell you how astonished I was to discover I loved her old sport. I even hoped for a time that she'd let me go.

But she didn't, because she loved me too. She thought I was now a. He had likely planned to take what he could and leave, but now he found himself chasing an elusive dream. He understood that Daisy was remarkable, yet he hadn't grasped just how remarkable a nice girl could be. She disappeared into her opulent home, into her rich, vibrant life, leaving Gatsby with nothing. He felt as though he were bound to her, and that was everything. When they met again two days later, it was Gatsby who was breathless, who felt somehow deceived.

Her porch glowed with the purchased luxury of Starlight, the Wicker of the settee creaked stylishly as she turned toward him, and he kissed her curious and beautiful mouth. She had caught a cold, which made her voice even huskier and more enchanting, and Gatsby was acutely aware of the youth and mystery that wealth captures and preserves, of the freshness of many and of Daisy shining like silver, secure and proud above the heated struggles of the poor. I can't tell you how astonished I was to discover I loved her old sport.

I even hoped for a time that she'd let me go. But she didn't, because she loved me too. She thought I was knowledgeable because I knew things she didn't. Well, there I was, far from my ambitions, falling deeper in love every moment, and suddenly I didn't care. What was the point of achieving great things if I could have a better time telling her what I planned to do? On the last afternoon before he went abroad, he sat with Daisy in his arms for a long, silent time. It was a crisp autumn day, the warmth of the fire contrasting with the flush on her cheeks.

Occasionally she shifted, prompting him to adjust his arm slightly, and once he pressed a kiss to her dark, lustrous hair. The afternoon wrapped them in a serene embrace, as if to etch a lasting memory for the impending separation the next day would bring. In their month of love, they had never felt closer, nor communicated more deeply than in those moments when her silent lips brushed against his coat's shoulder or when he gently touched the tips of her fingers as if she were asleep. He excelled remarkably during the war.

He was already a captain when he went to the front, and after the battles in the Argonne he was promoted to Major, taking command of the divisional machine guns following the Armistice. He was desperate to return home, but a mix up or misunderstanding diverted him to Oxford instead. Now he was troubled. Daisy's letters carried a tone of anxious despair. She couldn't understand why he couldn't come back. She was feeling the weight of the world pressing in, yearning to see him, to feel his presence beside her, to be reassured that her choices were right.

For Daisy was young and her fabricated world was filled with the scent of orchids, the light hearted snobbery of her social circle and orchestras that dictated the rhythm of the year, encapsulating life's melancholy and allure in fresh melodies. All night long, the saxophones lamented the hopeless refrain of the Beale Street Blues, while 100 pairs of golden and silver slippers shuffled through the gleaming dust. In the muted light of late afternoon, rooms would pulse with a gentle, persistent energy, a low, sweet fever.

Fresh faces floated through the space like rose petals, caught in the mournful music that filled the air. In this dusky world, Daisy began to stir with the changing season. Suddenly she was juggling half a dozen appointments a day with different men, falling asleep at dawn amidst the beads and chiffon of her evening gown, surrounded by wilting orchids on the floor beside her bed. Yet within her, a voice cried out for resolution. She longed for her life to take shape immediately, a decision driven by love, wealth, or undeniable practicality.

Something tangible and near that force materialized in the heart of Spring with Tom Buchanan's arrival. His presence was solid and reassuring, and Daisy felt flattered. There was undoubtedly a mix of struggle and relief. The letter reached Gatsby while he was still at Oxford. It was dawn on Long Island and we moved through the house, opening the remaining windows to let in the light that shifted from Gray to gold. The shadow of a tree fell sharply across the dew, and ethereal birds began to sing among the blue leaves.

The air moved slowly and pleasantly, barely a breeze promising a cool, beautiful day. I don't think she ever loved him. Gatsby turned away from the window and fixed me with a challenging gaze. You have to remember, old sport, She was really worked up this afternoon. He said things to her that scared her, made it seem like I was some kind of lowlife con artist, so much so that she barely knew what she was saying. He sank into a chair, a shadow of gloom over him. Sure, maybe she loved him for a moment when they first got married, and even then, she loved me more, you understand.

Then, out of nowhere, he made an odd comment. Anyway, it was just personal. What could you make of that, except to sense a depth to his view of the affair that defied easy understanding? He returned from France while Tom and Daisy were still on their honeymoon and embarked on a bleak yet compelling trip to Louisville with the last of his Army pay. He spent a week there, wandering the streets where they had once walked together through the November nights, revisiting the secluded spots they had driven to in her white car.

Just as Daisy's house had always seemed more mysterious and lively than others, so too did his vision of the city, even in her absence, carry a haunting beauty. He left with the feeling that if he had searched more thoroughly, he might have found her, that he was leaving her behind. The day coach he was broke now, was stifling. He stepped out to the open vestibule and sat on a folding chair as the station receded and the backs of unfamiliar buildings slid past. Out into the Springfields they went, where a yellow trolley briefly raced alongside them, its passengers perhaps once having glimpsed the ethereal magic of her face on some ordinary St. The track curved, steering them away from the sun, which as it dipped lower, seemed to cast a blessing over the fading city where she had once breathed life.

He reached out desperately, as if trying to capture just a wisp of air to hold onto a fragment of the place she had made beautiful for him. But everything was slipping past too quickly for his tear blurred eyes, and he realized he had lost that part of it, the freshest and most cherished forever. By 9:00 we had finished breakfast and stepped out onto the porch. The night had brought a sharp change in the weather and the air carried a hint of autumn. The gardener, the last of Gatsby's former staff, approached the steps.

I'm planning to drain the pool today, Mr. Gatsby. Leaves will start falling soon, and then there's always trouble with the pipes. Don't do it today, Gatsby replied. He turned to me with a hint of apology. You know, old sport, I haven't used that pool all summer. I glanced at my watch and stood up. 12 minutes until my train. I had no desire to head into the city. It wasn't just that I felt unproductive, I simply didn't want to leave Gatsby. I let one train pass, then another before I could bring myself to part.

I'll give you a call, I finally said. Please do old sport, I'll call around noon. We descended the steps slowly. I suppose Daisy will call, too. He looked at me with a hopeful anxiety, as if he needed me to confirm it. I suppose so. Well, goodbye. We shook hands and I began to walk away. Just before reaching the hedge, something struck me and I turned back there. A rotten crowd. I shouted across the lawn. You're worth the whole damn bunch put together. I've always been glad I said that. It was the only compliment I ever gave him because I disapproved of him from start to finish.

At first he nodded politely, then his face broke into that radiant, understanding smile, as if we had always been secretly in agreement on that point. His flamboyant pink suit stood out vividly against the white steps and I thought of the night I first arrived at his grand home three months earlier. The lawn and driveway had been filled with faces all speculating about his corruption, and there he stood on the steps, hiding his untainted dream, waving them off. I thanked him for his hospitality.

We were always expressing our gratitude for that, myself and the others. Goodbye, I called out. I enjoyed breakfast. Gatsby in the city. I attempted to sort through an endless list of stock quotes, but eventually I dozed off in my swivel chair. Just before noon. The phone startled me awake, sweat beating on my forehead. It was Jordan Baker. She often called around this time, since her unpredictable movements between hotels, clubs and private homes made her hard to reach otherwise. Normally her voice came through the line, fresh and cool, like a piece of green turf flying in through the office window.

But today it sounded harsh and dry. I've left Daisy's house, she said. I'm in Hempstead and I'm heading down to Southampton this afternoon. Leaving Daisy's house was probably a tactful move, but it irritated me and her next comment made me tense. You weren't so nice to me last night. How could it have mattered then? There was a pause, a silence that stretched between us then. Still. I want to see you. I want to see you too. What if I skip Southampton and come into the city this afternoon? No, I don't think this afternoon works all right.

This afternoon's impossible. Various things. We continued in this vein for a bit until suddenly the conversation just stopped. I can't recall who ended it with that decisive click, but I know I was indifferent. I couldn't have faced her over a tea table that day, even if it meant never speaking to her again in this life. A few minutes later I tried calling Gatsby's house, but the line was busy. I attempted 4 times. Finally, an exasperated operator informed me the line was reserved for a long distance call from Detroit.

I took out my timetable and circled the 3:50 train. Then I leaned back in my chair, trying to gather my thoughts. It was just noon that morning. When the train passed the ash heaps, I deliberately moved to the other side of the car. I imagined a curious crowd lingering there all day, little boys poking around for dark patches in the dust, and some talkative man recounting the events repeatedly until they lost their reality. Even for him and Myrtle Wilson, tragic end faded into obscurity. Now let me rewind a bit and recount what transpired at the garage after we left the previous night.

They struggled to find Catherine, the sister. It seemed she had broken her usual rule against drinking that night, for when she finally arrived she was so drunk she couldn't grasp that the ambulance had already left for Flushing. Once they managed to make her understand, she fainted, as if that was the most unbearable part of the whole ordeal. Someone, either out of kindness or curiosity, offered her a ride, following the path of her sister's body. Well past midnight, a shifting crowd gathered at the front of the garage, while inside, George Wilson rocked back and forth on the couch.

For a time, the office door was left open, and everyone who entered the garage couldn't help but glance inside. Eventually, someone remarked on the indecency of it, and the door was closed. Michaelis and a few other men stayed with him. Initially there were four or five, then it dwindled to two or three. Later, Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait another 15 minutes while he went back to his place to brew a pot of coffee. After that, he remained alone with Wilson until dawn. Around 3:00 in the morning, the nature of Wilson's incoherent ramblings shifted.

He became quieter and started talking about the yellow car. He declared he had a way to find out who owned it, then suddenly revealed that a couple of months ago his wife had returned from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen. But as soon as he heard himself speak, he recoiled and began to cry out. Oh my God. In a voice filled with anguish, Michaelis awkwardly tried to divert his attention. How long have you been married, George? Come on now, try to sit still for a moment and answer me.

How long have you been married? 12 years. Did you ever have any children? Come on, George, sit still. I asked you a question, Did you ever have any children? The hard brown beetles kept hitting against the dim light, and every time Michaelis heard a car speeding down the road outside, it sounded to him like the one that hadn't stopped a few hours ago. He was reluctant to enter the garage because the workbench was stained where the body had lain, so he moved uneasily around the office. He became familiar with every object there by morning and occasionally sat beside Wilson, trying to calm him.

Do you have a church you go to sometimes, George, even if you haven't been in a while? Maybe I could call the church and get a priest to come over and talk to you. You know I don't belong to any. You should have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church at some point. Didn't you get married in a church? George, listen to me. Didn't you get married in a church? That was a long time ago. Answering seemed to disrupt his rhythm, and for a moment he fell silent. Then that same mix of partial understanding and confusion returned to his faded eyes.

Check the drawer there. He said, gesturing toward the desk. Which drawer? That one right there. Mycalius opened the drawer closest to him. Inside, there was only a small, luxurious dog leash, crafted from leather and braided silver. It looked brand new. This. He asked, holding it up. Wilson stared at it and nodded. I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to explain it to me, but I knew something was off. You think your wife bought it? She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her dresser. Michaelius didn't see anything strange about that, and offered Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have purchased the dog leash.

It was possible that Wilson had heard these same justifications before, perhaps from Myrtle herself, because he began to whisper. Oh my God. Once more, his confidante left several explanations hanging in the air. Then he killed her. Wilson declared, his mouth suddenly agape. Who did I have a way of finding out? You're being morbid, George, his friend replied. This has been a lot for you and you're not thinking straight. You should try to sit quietly until morning. He murdered her. It was an accident.

George Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted slightly with the faintest hint of a knowing. Hmm, I know, he said with certainty. I'm one of those trusting guys and I don't wish harm on anyone. But when I learned something, I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to talk to him and he wouldn't stop. Michaelius had witnessed this too, but it hadn't struck him as having any particular significance. He believed that Missus Wilson had been fleeing from her husband rather than trying to stop any particular car.

How could she have been like that? She's a complex 1. Wilson replied, as if that explained everything. Ah. He began to rock back and forth again while Michaelis stood there, twisting the leash in his hand. Maybe there's a friend I could call for you, George. This was a desperate suggestion. Michaelius was almost certain Wilson had no friends. There wasn't enough of him, even for his wife. He felt a small relief a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue lightning by the window, and realized dawn was approaching.

By 5:00, it was bright enough outside to turn off the light. Wilson's glazed eyes drifted out toward the ash heaps, where small Gray clouds took on strange shapes and darted about in the faint dawn breeze. I spoke to her, he muttered after a long silence. I told her she might deceive me, but she couldn't deceive God. I took her to the window with effort. He got up, walked to the rear window and leaned against it, pressing his face to the glass. And I said God knows what you've been doing, everything you've been doing.

You may fool me, but you can't fool God. Standing behind him, Michaelius was startled to see that Wilson was staring at the eyes of Doctor TJ. Eckelberg had just emerged, pale and immense from the fading night. God sees everything, Wilson repeated. That's just an advertisement, Michaelius reassured him. Something compelled him to turn away from the window and glance back into the room, but Wilson remained there for a long time, his face pressed close to the glass, nodding into the dim light. By 6:00 in the morning, Mycalius was exhausted and relieved to hear a car pull up outside.

It was one of the night watchers who had promised to return, so he prepared breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now and Michaelius went home to sleep. When he awoke 4 hours later and rushed back to the garage, Wilson was gone. His movements, always on foot, were later traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gads Hill where he bought a sandwich he didn't eat and a cup of coffee. He must have been weary and walking slowly as he didn't reach Gads Hill until noon.

Up to this point, his whereabouts were easily accounted for. There were boys who had seen a man acting kind of strange and motorists whom he had stared oddly at from the roadside. Then, for three hours, he vanished. The police, based on what he had told Michaelius that he had a way of finding out, assumed he spent that time going from garage to garage inquiring about a yellow car. Yet no garage owner who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had a simpler, more certain method of discovering what he needed to know.

By 2:30, he had reached West Egg and asked someone for directions to Gatsby's house. By then he had learned Gatsby's name. At 2:00, Gatsby donned his bathing suit and instructed the Butler to notify him at the pool if any calls came through. He stopped by the garage to retrieve a pneumatic mattress that had entertained his guests throughout the summer, and the chauffeur assisted him in inflating it. He then ordered that the open car should be used under no circumstances, a curious decision given that the front right Fender needed repairs.

Gatsby hoisted the mattress and headed toward the pool. He paused once to adjust it, and the chauffeur offered assistance, but Gatsby declined with a shake of his head and soon vanished among the trees, their leaves turning yellow. No phone call came, yet the Butler stayed awake, waiting until 4:00, long after there was anyone to answer it. Had it come? I suspect Gatsby himself doubted it would, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that were the case, he must have felt he had lost the comforting world of the past, having paid dearly for clinging too long to a single dream.

He must have gazed up at the unfamiliar sky through the ominous leaves and shivered, realizing the grotesque nature of a rose and the harshness of sunlight on the barely formed grass. It was a new world, tangible yet unreal, where forlorn spirits breathing dreams like air drifted aimlessly like that ghostly fantastic figure moving towards him through the shapeless trees. The chauffeur 1 of Wolfsheim's proteges heard the gunshots, but later could only say that he hadn't thought much of them at the time.

I drove straight from the station to Gatsby's house, and my anxious rush up the front steps was the first sign of alarm for anyone there. But I believe they knew. Then, without words, the four of us, the chauffeur, Butler, Gardner, and I hurried silently down to the pool. The water barely stirred, just a faint movement as the fresh flow from one end made its way to the drain at the other. The mattress, burdened and heavy, drifted unevenly down the pool, its path altered by a slight breeze that barely rippled the surface.

A cluster of leaves brushed against it, causing it to turn slowly, tracing a thin red circle in the water like the leg of a compass. As we began to carry Gatsby back to the house, the gardener noticed Wilson's body lying a short distance away in the grass. And with that, the tragedy was complete. And that's where Fitzgerald leaves us. A thin red circle spreading through the water, A mattress drifting. A phone that never rang. Chapter 8 is the novel's reckoning. Everything that survived the crash, Gatsby's hope, his patience, his extraordinary capacity for belief gets quietly extinguished in a single afternoon.

Not with a confrontation, not with a scene. Just a man floating in a pool, waiting, and another man walking through the ash heaps with a gun. A few things worth sitting with as you go. Think about the timing of the confession. Gatsby has never talked the way he talks to Nick in this chapter. For five years he's been myth, performance, mystery. But somewhere between the foghorn and the dawn, the ACT drops. What's left underneath isn't tragic. It's almost tender. A young soldier who fell in love with a girl and never really recovered.

That's the whole story. And then there's Wilson. Fitzgerald keeps cutting back to the garage, to the Gray vigil. Mycalius keeps through the night to Wilson, rocking and muttering. He and Gatsby have more in common than the novel ever says out loud. Two men who built their lives around women who were always somewhere else. But the detail that haunts me most. Gatsby never used the pool all summer. He built the spectacle, threw the parties, filled the house, and never once went for a swim. He saves it for the last day, The one day he finally has nothing left to perform.

He dies in the only moment of the whole novel where he isn't waiting for anything. In the next episode we move into Chapter 9, the aftermath, the funeral, and a city that has already forgotten him. Thanks for listening.

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