It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence.
New York's dumping ground halfway between West Egg and the city where the burnt-out coal that powered the booming golden city was discarded by men who moved dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.
But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage: All his excitement, all his hope and Happiness were extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the darkness, and the glorious spell was broken.