No.1097
About half-way between West Egg and New York the motor-road hastily connects the railroad and the highway, and rests for a minute, and then accelerates, and immediately shrinks away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air
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