"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.
"The 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?"The Great Gatsby is, I think, one of those books I pretended to read in high school and/or college. I learned some of the names and was able to pass a test by osmosis, but avoided the actual reading. Now I actually am reading it. It's short, brisk, and so far more rewarding than I always figured it would be.
As for the above-quoted Tom Buchanan, he was born at the wrong time. In the previous century he could have been a presidential adviser. Or in, you know, the next one.