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 the Scarecrow did not mind how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and burn him up.
Fires of the last-mentioned materials were rare, and though comparatively small in magnitude beside the transient blazes, now began to get the best of them by mere long continuance.
We know what helps us, well, hopefully, and if you don't know what helps you get out of stress, chapter one of Burnout, you don't have to read the whole thing, just read chapter one.
Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away.
All foliage had been blasted or burned away from the once verdant landscape, and the zones between the opposing lines were a scarred and denuded wasteland.