CHAPTER 21

a sudden hint that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the

dark water in a curious way, and from as far as I was, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily, I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single

green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked for Alex again, he had vanished, and I was alone once more in the restless darkness.

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About halfway between West Egg and New York, the motor road hastily intersects with

the railroad and runs alongside it for a quarter mile, avoiding a particularly desolate stretch of land. This area is known as the Valley of Ashes—a surreal expanse where

ashes accumulate into ridges and hills, and grotesque gardens form shapes of houses, chimneys, and rising smoke, culminating in figures of men who move vaguely and

already disintegrate through the powdery air. Occasionally, a line of grey cars creeps along an invisible track, emits a ghastly creak, and comes to a halt, at which point the

ash-grey men swarm up with heavy spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud that obscures their mysterious activities from view.

However, above the grey land and the continuous drift of bleak dust, one can eventually

spot the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. His eyes are blue and enormous—their retinas are a yard high. They peer out from a pair of immense yellow spectacles that sit over a

nonexistent nose. It seems some eccentric oculist placed them there to boost his practice in Queens, then either succumbed to blindness or forgot about them and

moved away. But those eyes, slightly dimmed by countless paintless days under sun and rain, continue to watch over the solemn wasteland.

The Valley of Ashes is bordered on one side by a small, filthy river. When the drawbridge is raised to allow barges to pass, passengers on waiting trains can view the dismal

scene for up to half an hour. There is always a delay of at least a minute, which is how I first encountered Max Caldwell's mistress.