“You’re a rotten driver,” I protested. “Either you ought to be 

more careful, or you oughtn’t to drive at all.” 

“I am careful.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Well, other people are,” she said lightly. 

“What’s that got to do with it?” 

“They’ll keep out of my way,” she insisted. “It takes two to 

make an accident.” 

“Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.” 

“I hope I never will,” she answered. “I hate careless people. 

That’s why I like you.” 

She doesn't know how to drive, she only thinks about herself and would care less if she caused a crash.

 "My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires — all for eighty dollars a month."

Nick's house is not as nice as everyone else around him, he doesn't have a nice view and it hurts his eyes just to look at it.

"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 men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air."

The valley of ashes seems to be a black and white town, and it looks depressing, so if they planted flowers it could give the town a nice color.

 “I see you’re looking at my cuff buttons.” I hadn’t been 

looking at them, but I did now. 

They were composed of oddly familiar pieces of ivory. 

“Finest specimens of human molars,” he informed me. 

“Well!” I inspected them. “That’s a very interesting idea.” 
 

It's weird to have teeth as your buttons, even if it fits his style it's disgusting.

“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice 

muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never 

seen such — such beautiful shirts before.” 

They make her happy, and right now she's not very happy with her marriage to Tom, they might make her feel more confident.

“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. 

“Some big bootlegger?” 

“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. 

“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich 

people are just big bootleggers, you know.”

Tom thinks he's better than everyone because he is old rich and he gets his way.

The “death car.” as the newspapers called it, didn’t stop; it 

came out of the gathering darkness, wavered tragically for a 

moment, and then disappeared around the next bend. Michael-

is wasn’t even sure of its color — he told the first policeman 

that it was light green. The other car, the one going toward 

New York, came to rest a hundred yards beyond, and its driver 

hurried back to where Myrtle Wilson, her life violently extin-

guished, knelt in the road and mingled her thick dark blood 

with the dust. 

It's a dangerous street, cars fly by not paying attention and too many speed. If there was a traffic light Myrtle's might have been prevented.

“Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfsheim’s gone to Chicago.” 

Gatsby had a lot of friends, but none of them showed up at his funeral, so it’s like they don’t care for him anymore.

“It was after we started with Gatsby toward the house that the 

gardener saw Wilson’s body a little way off in the grass, and 

the holocaust was complete.“

Gatsby was close with his staff and they had to witness traumatic things that will take a long time to get over.