Somebody Tell The Trumpsters: This Is What The Great Gatsby Was About

"About five o'clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate — first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and I in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby's station wagon, all wet to the skin.

"As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with the owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marveling over Gatsby's books in the library one night three months before.

"I'd never seen him since then. I don't know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby's grave.

"I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn't sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur 'Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,' and then the owl-eyed man said 'Amen to that' in a brave voice.

"We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate.

"'I couldn't get to the house,' he remarked.

"'Neither could anybody else.'

"'Go on!' He started. 'Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.'

"He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in.

"'The poor son-of-a-bitch,' he said."

—F. Scott Fitzgerald