No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together.

Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner or later.

"Who is he anyhow, an actor?"
"No."
"A dentist?"
"...No, he's a gambler." Gatsby hesitated, then added cooly: "He's the man who fixed the World Series back in 1919."
"Fixed the World Series?" I repeated.
The idea staggered me. I remembered, of course, that the World Series had been fixed in 1919, but if I had thought of it at all I would have thought of it as something that merely happened, the end of an inevitable chain. It never occurred to me that one man could start to play with the faith of fifty million people — with the singlemindedness of a burglar blowing a safe.
"How did he happen to do that?" I asked after a minute.
"He just saw the opportunity."
"Why isn't he in jail?"
"They can't get him, old sport. He's a smart man."