We stayed at Como Point Yamu and it was absolutely superb. We really couldn't fault it at all. Aftwards we went to the Twin Palms at Surin beach and it was a big disappointment. The room rates were almost the same, but it just didn't compare in any way whatsoever. The location was also a massive shock; cheap and rundown with a poor selection of restaurants serving bland food.
What other hotels could we consider that would compare to Como (and similar room rate)? Looked at Nai Harn but that looks like it's seen better days. Same with most of the big brand hotels on the West coast of the island. Rosewood and Amanpuri look amazing, but are out of our budget.
Is the Surin hotel comparable to Como?

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When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. 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 neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. 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. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, 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 once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink 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. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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Introduction
The following list gives an overview for the 31st mayor's pass season Fabulous Florida - Florida Summer Vibes, of Simcity Buildit, which runs for 6 weeks, starting on Wednesday 7th of June 2023. The mayor's pass has 42 tiers for the free and premium passes. The premium-plus pass, which was introduced during season 21, has 52 tiers.
A premium pass or a premium-plus pass can be bought at any moment during the season. When the season ends, the option to buy is closed at the same moment.
When buying a premium pass, the player has to choose between the 'basic" premium pass and the premium-plus pass. It is not possible to "upgrade" from a premium pass to a premium-plus pass once the premium pass has been bought.
Buying a premium pass or a premium-plus pass will immediately unlock all premium/plus rewards of the tiers that already have been finished at the moment of buying. The premium plus pass will also unlock the next 5 tiers (for more specific info: read the premium plus section).
The first 16 seasons were officially numbered. Uptil season 16 the reward items in the mayor's pass specialisation section were numbered according to their original seasons. Since the 17th season these numbers have disappeared. In stead of the season number the name of the season is now shown in the building information.
Rewards
The unique new reward buildings are indicated in bold in the rewards columns.
Most other rewards are the same as, or comparable to rewards from previous seasons. For a few seasons in a row now, the free pass rewards for tier 4 and tier 26 are swapped each new season, but this season it is the same as last season. This season the war cards rewards are the same as last season; usually the war cards change each season.
The number of unique new buildings from the free pass has steadily gone down since the mayor's passes were originally introduced.
The free pass gave 5 unique new buildings since season 3 (when the seasons were shortened from 12 to 6 weeks). But since season 7 the free pass only gave 4 unique new buildings. Since season 11, the number of unique new buildings for the free pass is further limited: now you only can get 3 unique new buildings.
Tier points
Starting in season 30 the points per tier were different from previous seasons. It is expected that this season the points per tier will be the same as in season 30.
The list contains the number of plumbob points that are needed for each tier and the rewards from the free pass, the premium pass and the premium-plus pass.
Double points week
In the previous mayor's pass seasons there was a "double points week" in the last week (which only lasts 5 days because the season ends when the 6th Contest of Mayors (CoM) week ends). During this week, the regular assignments as well as the milestone tasks give double points.
Lightning CoM week
During season 25 there was a "Lightning CoM week" in week 5 for the first time: each CoM lasted 48 hours, and there were 3 CoM's during this week. Each CoM had 20 tasks less than the usual amount, and the targets for the milestones were lower (as well as the points for the milestones). But adding those 3 CoM's together, there were more tasks to complete and more points from milestones to gain, than during a regular week.
The Lightning CoM week wasn't repeated during seasons 26, 28 and 30. Lightning CoM weeks did return in the 5th week during seasons 27 en 29, this time with 2 CoM's that each lasted 72 hours. In season 27 the second Lightning CoM had double points; probably due to a mistake by the developers.
Based on this pattern it is considered likely that there will be a lightning CoM week again in the 5th week of this season.
Free and premium pass
In the table below, "tier points" indicate the number of plumbob points needed to get to the indicated tier from the previous tier. "Total points" gives the number of plumbob points from start upto the indicated tier.
Calculation for the weekly average points: Taking the double points week into account, the "weekly av." number indicates what your average weekly plumbob points score should be during the first 5 weeks and double that amount in the final week, if you want to reach that tier by the end of the season. To get to tier 42 you will need 87k during the first 5 weeks and 175k in the final week.
Premium-plus pass
There is no weekly average calculated for the tiers of the premium-plus pass, because the average that you need depends on when you buy the premium-plus pass.
Buying it at the start of the season will let you advance the first 5 tiers (14,000 points). Buying the premium-plus pass at a later moment will let you advance 5 tiers from your position at the moment of buying.
Unfortunately this isn't the case at the end of the tier track. When you don't buy the pass when you have reached tier 42, you will still accumulate points but you no longer advance in tiers. Bying the premium-plus pass after reaching tier 42 will first advance you to tier 47. Then the extra points that you may have got after tier 42 will be taken into account and (if you have enough) will advance you further in the tiers.
Going from tier 42 to tier 47 will only save you 145k points. It is more profitable to buy the premium-plus pass when you have reached tier 37. That will bring you to tier 42, saving 194k points.
Taking the double points week into account in a six week season you need 136k weekly and 272k during the double points week to reach tier 52, when you buy the premium-plus pass at the start of the season. When you buy it immediately after having reached tier 37, you need 110k weekly and 221k during the double points week to finish tier 52.
When you are only interested in the new buildings (aiming at reaching tier 40), you could buy the premium-plus pass after having reached tier 35. Then it takes 50k weekly and 101k during the double points week to reach tier 40.
Additional info
- Pictures of the new buildings in this season (31) and of new buildings from (design) events and limited time offers during this season can be found in our subreddit for pictures of limited time buildings: https://www.reddit.com/SCBI_Buildings/
- The new season was discussed in this topic.
- A video of the new buildings in this season (31) and other upcoming buildings can be found here
- An updated chart of the War Vu - pass tier points can be found here. The Vu-pass tiers were changed during Mayor's Pass season 28.
- The most likely future planning for upcoming seasons, design events and war vu-pass periods till the end of 2023 can be found here

Tier	Tier points	Total points	Weekly av. (calculation includes double points week)	Free pass rewards	Premium and premium-plus pass rewards
1	2000	2000	<600	3000 simoleons	Oceanside Drive
2	3000	5000	715	Llamawood Urban Art	100 SimCash
3	3000	8000	1440		Deed: City Expansion
4	3000	11,000	1570	10 Temporary Storage Boost	5000 NeoSimoleons
5	3000	14,000	2000		20,000 Simoleons
6	3000	17,000	2430	3 different War Items	10 Temporary Storage Boost
7	4000	21,000	3000		20 Platinum Keys
8	4000	25,000	3570	20 SimCash	1000 Regional Simoleons
9	5000	30,000	4285		1500 War Simoleons
10	6000	36,000	5140		Sunscape Bridge
11	4000	40,000	5715	Lake (This was a new reward building uptil season 10)	4 Llama Speed-Up Tokens
12	4000	44,000	6285		10 Golden Tickets
13	5000	49,000	7000	Deed: Mountain Expansion	2 Lake
14	5000	54,000	7715		Deed: Beach Expansion
15	6000	60,000	8570	60% Sale on SimCash	5x3 Vu Items
16	6000	66,000	9430		20 Comic Hand War Cards
17	6000	72,000	10,285	Small Palm Tree Forest	20 Golden Keys
18	7000	79,000	11,285		3x3 City Storage Items
19	10,000	89,000	12,715		SimCar Racetrack
20	11,000	100,000	14,285	Cypress Swamp (this was a new reward building in the seasons 3 - 6 and has been since season 11)	10 Temporary Storage Boost
21	9,000	109,000	15,570		7 Cheetah Speed-Up Tokens
22	10,000	119,000	17,000	Silver War Chest	7000 NeoSimoleons
23	11,000	130,000	18,570		3x3 Mountain Items
24	12,000	142,000	20,285	Lake	1 of each War Item
25	13,000	155,000	22,145		20 Platinum Keys
26	14,000	169,000	24,145	3x3 Area Expansion Items	5x3 Area Expansion Items
27	15,000	184,000	26,285		60 Mellow Bellow War Cards
28	14,000	198,000	28,285	10 Golden Tickets	5x3 Beach Items
29	17,000	215,000	30,715		Fort Danielson
30	20,000	235,000	33,570	2 Small Palm Tree Forest (this was a new reward building uptil season 10)	3500 Regional Simoleons
31	18,000	253,000	36,145		2 Palm Tree Forest
32	20,000	273,000	39,000	10 Common War Cards	24,000 NeoSimoleons
33	23,000	296,000	42,285		15 Temporary Storage Boost
34	27,000	323,000	46,145	15 Golden Keys	80,000 Simoleons
35	30,000	353,000	50,430		5x3 City Storage Items
36	32,000	385,000	55,000		3x3 Area Expansion Items
37	32,000	417,000	59,570	50 Platinum Keys	15 Golden Tickets
38	33,000	450,000	64,285		50 Golden Keys
39	37,000	487,000	69,570		Adventure Kingdom
40	39,000	526,000	75,145	Sim West Quarter	50 Platinum Keys
41	37,000	563,000	80,430		13 Cheetah Speed-Up Tokens
42	48,000	611,000	87,285	1400 SimCash	10,000 War Simoleons
					Premium-plus pass extra rewards
43+	25,000	636,000			10 Golden Tickets
44+	25,000	661,000			10x3 Mountain Items
45+	30,000	691,000			10 Cheetah Speed-Up Tokens
46+	30,000	721,000			3500 Regional Simoleons
47+	35,000	756,000			10,000 NeoSimoleons
48+	35,000	791,000			5X3 Area Expansion Items
49+	40,000	831,000			30 Platinum Keys
50+	40,000	871,000			20 Hissy Fit War Cards
51+	45,000	916,000			30 Golden Keys
52+	50,000	966,000			10,000 War Simoleons

After months of using Reddit, a friend told me about the NSFW side of this app. I don’t know what rock I’ve been living under but, wow!
After changing the app settings and a week of looking around and building up some courage, I thought I’d see if there’s anyone out there that would like to chat.
As the descriptive and unoriginal username indicates, I am a mechanical engineer by trade. A client asked me to join them in their offices for a few days in the WPB area so I will be here until Friday.
While I’m in town, it would be great to meet a woman who’s looking for conversation and possibly a coffee or a drink at some point.
Aside from being an engineer I enjoy being outside. You’ll often find me running or playing tennis. A running buddy or a light tennis game might be fun while I’m here (the racquet stays in the car)!
I’m 6’1”, sandy blonde/brown hair and weigh 175 lbs.
You should be kind and have a great smile. Personality is the most attractive attribute in a woman. But, hopefully you’re like me and have a flirty and naughty side too.
If this sounds like your cup of tea, reach out! Happy Monday!

Epilogue

A brief, beautiful series of vignettes. We close the loop on some emotional beats, as well as receive promises/foreshadowings of further adventures.

Epigraph

The opening verses of Rumor Born, and possibly my favorite piece of poetry in the whole novel. It took me until this epigraph to realize that the title itself is referring to the city of Darujhistan and it's history. That said, given the fact that the work describes the events of the novel itself, and is written by the same guy who wrote Anomandris, then either Fisher was a Seer of incredible power or else has an immensely long lifespan. Possibly both, although the fact that Fisher's birth date is unknown implies the latter. Even at the end, answers only invite further questions.
The only other point of note is the reference to the "Gates of Nowhere" but I'm unsure what that might mean. The SCDAT?

The Epilogue Itself

The remaining Bridgeburners land back where they'd initially launched from at the beginning of Book 3, preparing to await their Moranth escort. Quick Ben and Whiskeyjack watch Moon's Spawn drift south, possibly to find another contest, this time against the Pannion Seer. Whiskeyjack's headaches have been lessening, possibly in response to his loosening heart, less guarded than the one he bore into Darujhistan. His cool reference to the loss of three members not being "that bad, considering" and Mallet's pained response shows the change has yet to take in full, but the Seargent has begun a slow road back to humanity. We leave the Bridgeburners with an ominous note, that Quick Ben has hatched another scheme, a big feint, one which might run over poorly with Whiskeyjack.
Captain Paran watches his men below on the beach, contemplating everything it cost him to get here. His... unique nature has granted new senses, and a growing awareness of Silverfox. Whether or not the romance between Paran and Tattersail was Oppon compelled or not, the two resolve to reunite in time. Mysteriously, they communicate over vast distances, although it seems to be an unreliable process. He has buried Lorn, now finally a soldier, holding in the position once held by the very man who warned him against this path, walking a path of ruin himself. Ganoes Paran, the gods have noticed you, and their gaze is unlikely to fall from someone who survived their use — what will you make of yourself?
Kalam, Fiddler, Apsalar, and Crokus sail west for Dhavran. The former claw is amused by the two youths and their naive innocence. Crokus asks after Unta, and they speak of leaving others behind, and moving forward. Kalam holds nothing against Apsalar, she's just a girl, after all. Crokus objects to this and discards the Coin, no longer in need of luck. Circle Breaker, even here barely noticed, decides to inform the Eel one last time that the Coin Berrer has freed himself, then looks forward, anticipating a new life. Also, the monkey's a demon, which probably means something that it decided to stick around.
And so, with beautiful prose and bittersweet optimism, so ends the first tale of the Malazan Book of the Fallen.

Gardens of the Moon

An excellent start all around! We've yet to see how fitting it may be for the rest of the series, but for now, I'm hooked! So much of this rode on Erikson's ability to pull off this massively ambitious departure from the commonplace, and he managed to pull it off far better than could be expected. While I recognize his inspirations in histories and anthropology, being able to port one form of literature to another, not only across genres but the fiction/non-fiction divide, is seriously impressive. While doing so without sacrificing much of the strengths of either format; even leveraging them to complement one another, is a staggering feat. I'll be breaking things down, although these categories are listed in no particular order, into Plot, Characters, Setting, Cosmology (encompassing the more fantastical elements from magic to races), and Prose/Format.

Plot

Favorite plots include the whole Jaghut Tyrant arc (for obvious reasons), Paran's Excellent adventure, and the whole Coll/Lady Simttal arc.
The deep lore cuts of all the Jaghut and T'lan Imass storylines are incredible, worldbuilding on a scope that allows for geological/evolutionary implications. The powers at play boggle the imagination and feel realized despite their incomprehensibility. Not necessarily "cosmic horror" although that plays a part, but a cosmic spectacle nonetheless. Ending, of course, with an apocalyptic battle feeling like the climax of a series of epics we barely get to glimpse. Looking forward to seeing so much more of this side of the Malazverse. I will say, the T'lan Imass gathering never really occurred, but I expect that's still coming.
Paran's whole plotline, beginning with quickly snuffed youthful aspirations, to political maneuverings, to being a pawn in the interplay between many gods and ascendants, to shaking free of the powers chaining him, if not necessarily free of what has happened to him, was great to watch unfold. It was the most straightforward "quest fantasy" of the book, touching on many cool places and meeting a wide variety of characters. Paran's brute "I'm already dead anyway so I may as well attack things head on" strategy was refreshing to watch, his relationships to Topper, Tattersail, and Toc were all great and helped to show his evolving character. Connecting with the Bridgeburners and helping them sort everything going on out was cathartic. And of course, the elephant in the room, the Dragnripur episode was fascinating and haunting and I need more.
Then there was the whole Oppon-infused plan regarding Lady Simtal and particularly its climax, was fantastic. I'm a sucker for plotlines that were technically successful yet have the characters involved come away regretting it happening in the first place. The solidarity between the Phoenix Inn regulars was great, as well as untangling their connections to one another. No there's no objective reason this one stood above the other Darujhistan plotlines, but I jive with it.
Other plots, such as all the Tiste Andii background intrigue, Crokus's whole ordeal, as well as Tattersail's plotline are great as well.
Most of the Tiste Andii stuff needs to be unpacked more fully down the road, as is we have only a brief glimpse into this massive, alien world on Moon's Spawn. Caladan Brood, Kallor, the unseen Prince K'azz, and Crone all seem to have their own intrigue going on, keeping someone reigned in. As for that someone, Anomander Rake's whole deal is a whole deal, I'm enthralled to see more of this obsolete great desperately try to get his people to care about anything again. The dragons are all tangled in this as well. Yea, I did just spend a lot of words just implying things without divulging much of what it meant, but so did Erikson and I'm hooked.
So Oppon's big plan seems to just keep nudging this one unwitting kid around via hormones and coincidence to drag the genuinely important players around. This is fascinating because it seems all Oppon wanted to do was mess with the Empire. For reasons that aren't quite clear yet, the gods seem terrified of this growing coalition of power on the part of the mortals and are doing what they can to slow this down. Even more interesting, they'd likely be able to curb-stomp the mortals pretty easily if they all weren't in their own cold war with one another. Oppon did seem to be multitasking a bit with messing with Shadow, but I'm less certain why they'd have beef outside of each operating in the "screw with stuff we shouldn't" domain.
Tattersall's (or now Silverfox's) arc is of course left wide open by the end of this, but is great. The Deck of Dragons is a fantastic narrative device, as we get assurance of the god's machinations in the background without having to pull the curtain back all the way. Also, one of the lingering questions I have is who the Ascendant that messed with the reading she did with Tayscheren was. I guess Shadowthrone? The whole soul-shifting arc and rebirth sequence are haunting and more than a but disturbing, but that speaks to the alternatives she could have undergone from her stunt in body-hopping. Her relationship with romance was a bit, odd, but there's a non-trivial element of divine meddling so it's cool ig.
The plotting is currently the strongest element of M:BotF thus far. That we had like 14 different plot threads splitting off and overlapping and drawing together over the course of the narrative is insane. That many of these plot threads managed to enliven and enlighten one another, narratively, thematically, and lore-wise, only makes the whole multiplicatively stronger than the sum of its parts. Everything felt pretty natural, with the threads that did overlap often doing so secondarily, as natural consequences rather than merging together into one mega-climax. I mean, we did get one mega-climax-sequence, but that was far more due to their proximity rather than each even being doomed to become defined by one another. Events that started separately for separate reasons stayed separate, but the shared pool of locations and characters helped to cause each of these to be deeply interconnected in the lives of those characters. Speaking of which...

Characters

My relationship with the characters of this novel is a bit interesting. They serve their plots wonderfully, and nearly every one of them has several standout moments in both word and deed. Yet, on the whole, they're, fine. I guess they're... exactly the sum of their parts? Don't get me wrong, these are extremely good parts they're made of. New character archetypes, old ones played extremely well, old ones given genuinely inventive twists. These are very good characters, but possibly the weakest pillar of the novel. The dialogue is weighty and meaningful, betraying a depth to the world and the people in it. Actions are (usually) thought out, exceptions to this rule are all true to a character or under extenuating circumstances. I want to see more of all of them. It's just, there isn't much of that "x factor" a lot of great character writers bring out.
I've already praised Paran, his attitude, and his motives. He's way over his head at the best of times and just has to bluff and namedrop long enough to survive to a point where he can effect genuine change. That effort changes him pretty drastically, and while he is somewhat better off for it, it is a sad thing to see the naive kid in him die off so soon.
Tattersail is interesting to me, I like her, but as a character she's on the weaker end of the cast. We do see her strong emotions and compassion explored a bit, but she takes a pretty hard left turn plot wise before that goes much of anywhere. We'll have to wait and see how Silverfox pans out.
Whiskeyjack fascinates me, we don't get too much of who he is, just all that's left of him of being ground into the dust. I can't wait to see Whiskeyjack the Old Guard thaw off more, as well as Whiskeyjack the man.
Quick Ben and Kalam probably stand as my current favorite Bridgeburners, their bromance being a highlight of the novel all while standing as fascinating characters on their own. Quick Ben has, all kinds of backstory running around, as well as secrets on top of that, but what we know of him so far is great. Kalam's just world-weary, yet he can't help but keep moving forward until he can bow out legitimately. The two of them are so much fun on top of being fascinating.
Dujek and Tayscheren, while not super present in the novel, are pretty great characters in their own right. Dujek, last of the Old Guard with any real power, just trying to do what he can for his men. And Tayscheren, not necessarily evil, but just a guy swallowed up in his own job.
Hairlock, while not making too much of a splash in the grand scheme of things, was an incredibly fun inclusion and a great initial antagonist. Just a power-mad goofy little guy who doubles as our first major look into this world's magic and cosmology.
Adjunct Lorn was one of the standout characters of the novel, a woman enslaved to her own self-justification. Torn between the scared girl trapped in the mines and the unfeeling super claw, unable to reconcile the two before the end. Her constant contradictions and tensions within her character were fascinating to watch.
And Toc, poor Toc man. A great guy who I'd loved to have seen more of, just being such an interesting character on top of being fun. I feel he's introduced some interesting concepts, from the "inner sight" superstition of Seven Cities to whomever his dad is, but the credits have rolled and my guy is still down for the count, so I'll be interested to see how these elements are brought back.
Crokus Younghand stands out in this novel as the one, lone dumbass. Stop being literally me Crokus, you're embarrassing us. His interactions with everyone are great, quickly vacillating between idealism and stubbornness, romanticism and a parody grimdark woe-is-me view of reality. Every interaction he has with a woman is golden, but not particularly a glowing performance on his end.
Magnanimous Kruppe the First is the indesputable highpoint of this esteemed tale, and I will not hear otherwise. He is of course, bestowed of many virtues, chief among so his delight in the many pleasures of this world, second among so his capacity to indulge in any virtue or pleasure at will. Cleverest of anyone we see here, able to run conversations by himself with faux humility (for what does Kruppe have a need to be humble about?) and keep the magnificent city of Darujhistan in his pocket. There is a power vacuum of sorts our dear Eel needs to fulfill, and there is plenty of the rotund mage to explore each new crevice.
Rallick Nom and Murillio are great as well, in many ways they act as foils of one another. Rallick does what he does because he sees this as his only path through life, holding onto the concept of his actions benefiting others to preserve his mortality. Murillio, on the other hand, has a moral code of sorts but will transgress it if he feels there is a way to benefit a friend sufficiently. In the end, they both wind up morally bankrupt.
Lady Simtal and Turban Orr were fun villains. Not particularly unique but pulled off extremely well.
High Alchemist Baruk seems to have a whole bunch of layers to him. We keep getting allusions to a whole bunch of relevant stories with this man, such as his ascendancy or close friendship to Rallick Nom, but we don't get to see much of it, which I feel is a shame.
Raest is an awsome force of nature villain, believably evil for the sake of it. Namely, his evil is specific which is what makes for great villains of this sort. Raest wanted control over the longterm development of his world, to fundamentally remake things after his own nature.
Anomander freaking Rake. Nuf said.

Setting

While this is our first real look into Wu(?) as a whole, I'll mostly focus on modern-day Genebakis.
A great setting, with a bit of ecological and cultural diversity, although mostly hyperfocused on the city of Darujhistan. Perhaps a bit more could have been done in the set-dressing department. Genebaris received no real description, despite apparently existing in a different biome than the more southern cities. Similarly, he evidently passes through a forest, but of what kind? Touches like these could help further drive in the scope of the narrative physically in a similar manner to the temporal scope. It also is a bit disappointing because when Erikson did go the extra mile to do so, such as Kruppe's dreams or the like, two up-close descriptions of Darujhistan (besides just being big, blue, and copper from far off) were great. Actually, the lack of Darujhistan descriptions was possibly the biggest missed opportunity.
But what we do get in the City of Blue Fire is great and evocative. From the infrastructure to the politics to the culture and religion, it all stands out even among other great fantasy cities.
The Rhivi, Moranth, and Bhargast can all stand to be expanded on, but I get the sense that they'll be more than able to provide on that front once it becomes time. I'm curious to see how southern Genebakis contrasts to the northern reaches, but we'll get to that when we get to that.
Erikson's experience as an anthropologist really shines through, with the breadth, depth, and specificity of the world-building and cultures. I anticipate this element of the BotF rising to the top for me personally once we have more time to watch it unfold.

Cosmology and Magic

So my takes on these have been... rather well received, it seems. I love what tiny bit of the magic and cosmos of the world I've seen so far and look forward to understanding more!
In a lot of ways, it seems magic in this world is itself undergoing an evolutionary process, with all the Elder Warrens to Warrens ascendants and gods, and mortals evidently now being potent enough to overpower the gods themselves. If we expand on this analogy, then a lot of the confusion might be due to poor terminology. E.g. define a fish. Now define a Warren. There seem to be multiple related things all lumped under the same blanket term, despite their functional difference. The magic super highways and demi-planes and isolated pockets within objects (Dragnupir and the Finnest) are all roughly related (fish) while being intrinsically different and likely further classifiable as such (trout, squid, and sharks if you will).
But aside from that residual speculation and just generally saying its cool, I don't got much to say here.

Prose and Format

The prose of GotM was pretty good! Not the best, but serviceable, engaging, and evocative with a handful of really standout passages. I cannot wait to see this take a ten-year leap in Deadhouse Gates!
The formating was interesting. Many chapters were wonderfully interwoven PoV's all complimenting each other. Some could have conceivably been split into multiple quite comfortably, other blended. Makes me wonder why Erikson collected things as he did. Chapter 9 was basically 4 self-contained sequences each a chapter long, lol. ... It's because the Odessy has 24 chapters, isn't it? The book breakdown was terrifically effective, while Books 4, 5, and 6 largely blended together PoV-wise, they each still had their specific goals and arcs.
I'm a major fan of Epigraphs, and these were all great! (Despite my constant timeline and poetry scruples) A lot of my more out-there theorizing tended to be a bit more playful with the epigraphs than I think Erikson ever got, but that's more my own biases talking. I will say, if I ever get around to writing anything, I'd love to go ham on epigraph shenanigans.
All in all, this profoundly unique PoV structure (not so much unique in form as in just how broad and ambitious it is) works to elevate the whole experience. That Erikson so radically adheres to 3rd limited can get somewhat constraining at times, especially when we're not privy to info our PoV has, but overall, it works.

Final Thoughts

So, with all my nit-picking, critiques, and half-praise, did I even like this novel? No, I LOVE it. It is in many ways as advertised, a messy first step into a unique and wildly ambitious new direction, and I'm wholly invested in watching the rest of this unfold!
And now for one last pass through the ancillary goodies:
Dramatis Personae
Is actually quite funny in retrospect. But first:
Sorry is mentioned as a killer in the guise of a young girl. Obvious when you're in the know but it doesn't give the answer right away.
Dancer is mentioned as the advisor (right-hand, if you will) right out of the gate, D'oh.
Toc the Elder disappeared during Laseen's purges, interesting.
Kruppe: a man of false modesty, TRUE
Coll being merely listed as a drunk, technically true.
Chert: "an unlucky bully" lol
Mammot is listed as a High Preist of D'riss, D'oh.
The Eel is listed independently of Kruppe, good cover.
K'Rul is listed as the Maker of Paths, D'oh.
And that's more or less it. (I mean, I only skimmed it before, so its not like a missed anything)

Glossary

Not too much to say here, but a few notes:
Poliel, Missteres of Pestilence, and Soliel, Missteres of Healing have rather similar names, which is interesting.
The Warrens here are all listed as what their actual domains are, which is a nice aid. There don't seem to be any more than the ones named somewhere within the text, which is fine, but a couple odd notes:
Meanas is listed as the Path of Shadow and Illusion, Tattersail mentioned the two domains are connected, whereas Quick Ben (once a High Preist of Shadow) had seemed to regard the two as separate. There's a story there.
Also, Thyr, Tattersaill's Warren, is the Warren of Light, given the apparently... interesting relationship between Light and Dark, particularly Lights evident "corruption" I'd love to see the implications of all this.
The K'chain Che'maille's Elder Warren is not listed, either because it doesn't exist (once again proving them the worst Elder Race, nerds got soloed by some snow, lol) or it was simply never mentioned. Given we have seen at least one magic relic from them, likely the latter.
Also, the Azath is nowhere mentioned, which is interesting in itself.
Well, that's that! See y'all in a week or so, once I've gotten a test out of the way, with the beginning of Deadhouse Gates!

Hello! Never having been to west palm, I wanted to ask if it would be better to book a hotel within walking distance to Ithink or a hotel on the beach if we plan to go to a show there? It would only be for one night- is the area around the amphitheater a nice place to stay? Any hotel recommendations, either near the venue or on the beach? Thanks in advance!

THE compulsive gambler sub consciously wants to lose his shirt, of course, along with everything else he owns, and so he again and again puts down the rent money on the Montreal Expos or 80‐to‐1 2‐year‐old maiden fillies wear ing blinkers and bandaged forelegs. And if he's nothing else, Walter Matthau, the 50‐year‐old stage and movie actor, is a compulsive gambler. A few years ago, for instance, while in Florida to film episodes of a TV series called “Tallahassee 7000,” Matthau breath‐takingly managed in a mere two weeks to drop no less than $183,000. He lost the money, moreover, not by backing crippled nags at Hialeah but mainly instead by betting on the outcome of spring training baseball games, a way of tossing bundles of money out the window that should surely that year have won him the Nobel Prize for masochism.
Since dropping that $183,000, sum that eventually took, him six years to pay off to his increa ingly impatient Mafia ‐ connected book maker, Matthau has cut down con siderably on the amounts that he bets, especially when he goes to race tracks, and on a good day at Holly wood Park he can now come happily home having lost only $400 or $580.
Still, he continues casually to bet thousand dollars or so on things like N.B.A. play‐off games or whether or not a friend can name the capital of Albania, and so remains a prime example of the evils of gambling to all those New Yorkers who are thinking of taking a first‐time fling at the ponies because of an easy access these days to offtrack betting windows in Grand Central Station and elsewhere. “I think that off‐track betting is great for New York,” dryly remarked Matthau during a recent three‐day visit to the city from his home in California. “I mean, it's so democratic—if they keep up off‐track betting long enough, every body in town will be on welfare.”
Of course, though he has the mo rose, hangdog look of a chronic loser, Matthas is scarcely a loser in everything he gets mixed up in. Far from it, as a matter of fact. For example, when signing contracts for his last several movies he chose to gamble on accepting a percentage of the profits in lieu of a salary, and at least one of these gambles has al ready handsomely paid off—his per centage of “Cactus Flower,” a film he made a couple of years ago with Ingrid Bergman and Goldie Hawn, has so far amounted, to more than a million dollars. And he's also on the way to making another million or so as his share of the profits from each of his two most recent pictures—“A New Leaf,” a wacky comedy in which he is co‐starred with Elaine May, and “Plaza Suite,” the film version of Neil Simon's exceedingly successful Broadway play. So, unlike almost every other compulsive gamb er in the country, Matthau is nowadays just about literally rolling in money. Besides, pleased with the way that his career is going, with his marriage, with his three children, and with his seaside home in Pacific Palisades, Calif., Matthau is even happy, an emotion not normally associated with the compulsive gambler.
HOW does a compulsive gambler get to be one? The story of Matthau's life is perhaps an object lesson to all of those who have lately been spend ing their lunch hours in Grand Cen tral Station to wait in line for the dubious privilege of giving away their money to Howard Samuels and his Off track Betting Corporation. In any event, Matthau was born on the lower East Side of Manhattan on Oct. 1, 1920, the son of an impoverished Russian‐Jewish immigrant from Kiev, in the Ukraine, and of a Lithuanian born Jewish mother.
When Matthau was 3 years old, and his older brother, Henry, was 5, his father, a worker at such odd jobs as serving subpoenas for law firms, lit out for parts unknown, leaving him and his brother to be raised by their mother, Rose, who managed to scrape a marginal living for herself and her sons by working as a sewing machine operator in garment district sweatshops. In 1935, when Matthau was 15 years old, he learned of his father's death in Bellevue Hospital. His mother is still living, and—sup ported in the grand manner by her sons (Matthau's brother lives now on Long Island and is a jobber of surplus Army‐Navy goods)—divides her time these days between a penthouse on West End Avenue and a condo in Miami Beach.
During his childhood, Matthau, his brother and his mother lived in succession of cold‐water tenement apartments in the Ukrainian area of the Lower East Side, that is, around East Fifth Street near Second Av enue, being forced to vacate each apartment after only a few months because they'd got so hopelessly far behind in the rent that their land lord would have them evicted. Years later, when Matthau briefly sublet Paul Newman's house in Hollywood for $3,700 per month, he recalled with a shake of his head that $3,700 was more money than the Matthau family had spent on rent during 20 years on the Lower East Side. Mat thau, however, hasn't the slightest nostalgia these days for his poverty ridden childhood. “It was a night mare—a dreadful, horrible, stinking nightmare,” he grimly remembers.
On the Lower East Side, Matthau recalls, the highest ambition of most of his class ates was some day to become a salesman for a garment district dress house, for he himself secretly had far more exalted am bitions — by the age of 8, a day dreamer, a loner, a reader of Shake speare, he'd already determined to become a famous writer and actor. Encouraged by a teacher who ad mired his speaking voice, Matthau appeared in a number of school plays and also regularly recited poetry in school assemblies. On East Fifth Street, anyone who evinced an interest in poetry was thought by his classmates to be seriously lacking in machismo, and Matthau often found himself getting beaten up at recess by schoolyard bullies. So, already feet tall by the age of 10 (he weighed only 90 pounds, however, and, says Matthau, who is today 6 feet 3 inches tall and weighs 180 pounds; “when I drank cherry soda, I looked like thermometer”), he put himself through a regimen of muscle‐building until “I had Popeyelike bumps on my skinny arms and could beat up any body who made snide remarks about my poetry reading.”
When Matthau was 11 years old, in fact, one of those whom he alleges to have beaten up in the schoolyard was none other than Rocky Graziano, who grew up, of course, to become the middleweight boxing champion of the world. Of Matthau's claim to having beaten up Graziano, one can unequivocally make the following statement: The story either is or is not true.
IN any event, along with being a compulsive gambler, Matthau is also something of a compulsive stretcher of the truth. Or, to put it perhaps a bit more tactfully, a compulsive weaver of fiction when it comes to talking about his past. For example, bored with repeating the story of his life over and over again to interview ers, Matthau has on more than one occasion told newspapermen and magazine writers that his father was a defrocked Russian Orthodox priest who'd had to flee for his life from Czarist Kiev in 1906 because he'd been preaching sermons in support of Pope Pius X. And this story, told by Matthau to interviewers with an absolutely straight face, has appeared several times as the God's truth in such usually accurate publications as Time and Current Biography.
NOT long ago, too, when Matthau was in New York for a round of newspaper, maga zine, radio and TV interviews to promote “Plaza Suite,” chanced to be in earshot when he told a story to Neil Simon that he'd heard the night be fore from Gene Saks, the director, about a somewhat aging and hard ‐ of hearing actor who'd had trouble re membering his lines in a play last winter at the Palm Beach Playhouse in Florida. So, as Matthau told the story to Si mon, a prompter, unseen by the audience, was hidden in a hole cut into the front of the stage and instructed to call out only key words to the actor when a line was for gotten. “Drastic,” whispered the prompter when the actor went up in his lines on the opening night of the play. From the hard ‐ of ‐ hearing actor, no response. “Drastic,” repeated the prompter in a somewhat louder voice. Again, no response. “Drastic,” the prompter now all but shouted. Still no response, upon which a man in the second row of the orchestra stood up and yelled “Dastic!” The actor heard him, smiled, remem bered his line, and the play went on.
As show‐biz stories go, not bad. Not so great, either. The following evening, however, happened to be on hand when Matthau was being inter viewed by David Frost on Frost's TV talk show and was asked, “What was your most embarrassing moment in the theater?” And, without batting an eyelash, Matthau pro ceeded to tell the “drastic” story as though it was some thing that had happened to him years ago on Broadway.
He concocts personal anec dotes that aren't true, Mat thau later somewhat abashedly told me, because they liven up otherwise boring inter views and make his past seem more colorful than it really was. “Like saying that my father was a Catholic priest — I figure that makes me more interesting than just another Jewish actor who had a pair of Jewish parents,” Matthau explained to me with a grin. “Jewish and Catholic— if I can just work a Protestant into my background, I'm all set.”

Football

2024 Football Commits (#16 by 247, #13 by Rivals)

Player	Position	Location	Composite Rating	Rating at Commit
Kavion Henderson	DL	Leeds, AL	****(.9267)	****(.9245)
Dion Stutts	DT	Memphis, TN	***(.8753)	***(.8759)
Noreel White	CB	Ocean Springs, MS	****(.9006)	****(.9002)
Julius Pope	LB	Batesville, MS	****(.8993)	****(.8993)
KJ Jackson	QB	Montgomery, AL	****(.8917)	****(.8917)
Jade Allen	CB	Aledo, TX	****(.8960)	****(.8985)
Courtney Crutchfield	WR	Pine Bluff, AR	****(.9145)	****(.8933)
Charleston Collins	DL	LItte Rock, AR	****(.9304)	****(.9202)
Tevis Metcalf	CB	Pinson, AL	***(.8550)	***(.8550)
Jadan Baugh	RB	Decatur, GA	***(.8867)	***(.8867)

247 Crystal Ball Prediction Link
Top Football Targets

Player	Location	Rating	Crystal Ball/Committed
OFFENSE
QB
RB
Braylen Russell	Benton, AR	****(.9069)	Arkansas (1) 100%
Nate Palmer	Decatur, TX	****(.8908)	NONE
Traevon Dunbar	Aiken, SC	***(.8769)	NONE
Kewan Lacy	Lancaster, TX	****(.8828)	Ole Miss (2) 100%
Taylor Tatum	Longview, TX	****(.9817)	Michigan (1) 100%
WR
CJ Brown	Bentonville, AR	***(.8750)	NONE
Josiah Martin	Denton, TX	***(.8786)	NONE
Dozie Ezukanma	Forth Worth, TX	***(.8759)	NONE
Bryant Wesco	Midlothian, TX	****(.9788)	Clemson (3) 85.7% - Oklahoma (1) 12.5%
Ryan Wingo	St Louis, MO	*****(.9884)	Georgia(1) 100%
Parker Livingstone	Lovejoy, TX	****(.9086)	Arkansas (1) 75% - Texas (1) 25%
Dae'von Hall	Bellevue, NE	****(.8955)	Nebraska (1) 100%
Jeremiah McClellan	St Louis, MO	****(.9310)	Ohio State (2) 100 State
Delon Miller	Silsbee, TX	****(.9647)	NONE
TE
Kylan Fox	Loganville, GA	****(.9204)	Florida State (1) 100%
Decker DeGraaf	Glendora, CA	***(.8750)	NONE
OL
Kobe Branham	Forth Smith, AR	***(.8650)	Arkansas (3) 100%
JacQawn McRoy	Pinson, AL	****(.9313)	NONE
Max Anderson	Frisco, TX	****(.9276)	Tennessee (2) 100%
Jonah Logan	Saint Louis, MO	NR	NONE
Daniel Akinkunmi	NFL Academy (London)	NR	NONE
Fletcher Westphal	Leesburg, VA	****(.9123)	NONE
Kai Greer	Waxhaw, NC	***(.8867)	NONE
Makai Saina	Arlington, TX	****(.8917)	NONE
Daniel Calhoun	Roswell, GA	****(.9561)	NONE
Barry Walker	Cordele, GA	***(.8828)	NONE
Web Davidson	Macon, GA	NR	NONE
Jason Zandamela	Clearwater, FL	****(.9412)	Florida State (2) 100%
Waltclaire Flynn Jr.	Loganville, GA	****(.9131)	NONE
DEFENSE
DE
TJ Lindsey	Bryant, AR	***(.8900)	Texas A&M (1) 100%
Solomon Williams	Tampa, FL	***(.8826)	NONE
Danny Okoye	Tulsa, OK	****(.9355)	NONE
Zina Umeozulu	Allen, TX	****(.9381)	NONE
Williams Nwaneri	Lees Summit, MO	*****(.9971)	Oklahoma (1) 100%
Collin Simmons	Duncanville, TX	*****(.9965)	LSU (1) 100%
DT
Marcus Downs	Greer, SC	***(.8826)	NONE
Nigel Smith II	Melissa, TX	****(.9591)	Oklahoma (1) 100%
Jayden Jackson	Bradenton, FL	***(.8750)	NONE
Alex January	Duncanville, TX	***(.8865)	NONE
Malik Blocton	Pike Road, AL	****(.8908)	NONE
Terrell Spruill	Rockledge, FL	***(.8478)	NONE
Landon Marshall	Andalusia, AL	***(.8550)	NONE
LB
Brian Huff	Jonesboro, AR	****(.9096)	Arkansas (2) 100%
Jordan Burns	Atlanta, GA	****(.8933)	NONE
D'Angelo Barber	Pinson, AL	***(.8867)	Auburn (1) 100%
Xavier Atkins	Humble, TX	****(.9163)	Committed to LSU
Justin Logan	Marietta, GA	***(.8900)	NONE
CB
Braylon Conley	Humble, TX	***(.8883)	NONE
Chris Johnson Jr	Aledo, TX	****(.8927)	NONE
Elijah Hall	Tuskegee, AL	***(.8550)	NONE
Josh Philostin	West Palm Beach, FL	****(.8924)	NONE
Selman Bridges	Temple, TX	****(.9709)	NONE
S
Ka'Davion Dotson	Duncanville, TX	****(.9159)	LSU (2) 100%
Tyler Singleton	Many, LA	****(.9422)	NONE
KJ Bolden	Buford, GA	*****(.9957)	Georgia (1) 100%
Tomauri Johnson	Miami, FL	***(.8685)	NONE
Marqavious Saboor	Marietta, GA	***(.8800)	NONE
Ashton Hampton	Tallahassee, FL	***(.8689)	NONE
Kenyan Kelly	Denison, TX	***(.8886)	NONE
Tyler Woodard (JUCO)	Memphis, TN	NR	NONE

Basketball

2023 Basketball Signees (#9 by 247, #18 by Rivals)

Player	Pos.	Location	Composite
Layden Blocker	PG	Maumell, AR	****(.9869)
Baye Fall	C	Denver, CO	****(.9890)

Transfer Portal contacts via NWAHutch

I am heading down to FL in a couple weeks for a golf trip with 8 buddies - I was against a June trip because of the heat but it was the only slot that worked for everyone. We are playing 36 on both Friday and Saturday, and we have courses booked for Saturday but Friday is still wide open.
Any suggestions? I was pushing for the Park but it seems they’re punching the greens right before we get there.

Hey guys, I am new to this community but love bass fishing so much. I am going to West Palm Beach in a couple days and am super overwhelmed with where to go fresh water fishing for huge bass or other cool species. If anyone has some knowledge on where to go for bank fishing or if charters are the move I would greatly appreciate any advice. I will have a car down there but no boat.

Hit me up, here for the week!

Hit me up, here for the week!

So I’m a Diamond for Life having stayed exclusively at Hilton properties since 2008. Most of my stays are for business. I checked into the Embassy Suites West Palm Beach Central for a ten night business stay and was surprised that I am unable to utilize an HDMI input on the TV in the room. I use the TV as a second monitor for my laptop. I went down to the desk and asked and was promptly told that they disable all HDMI ports on their TV’s and there’s zero possibility of having that changed. They were apologetic and suggested that I should perhaps “go to Walmart and purchase a cheap TV”. I was nice but told the girl I am seriously considering moving properties for the rest of my stay. I understand the TV’s are the hospitality models and not normal models but this is honestly the silliest thing I’ve ever encountered. Has anyone encountered anything like this or been successful in getting it resolved?

Where can you go to game some drop in beach volleyball around west palm. I noticed nothing in lake worth and nothing palm beach .
Preferably on the ocean
TIA