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THE VALLEY of ASHES
About half way 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 (Chapter 2).
The only building in sight was a small block of yellow brick sitting on the edge of the waste land, a sort of compact Main Street ministering to it, and contiguous to absolutely nothing. One of the three shops it contained was for rent and another was an all-night restaurant, approached by a trail of ashes; the third was a garage—Repairs. GEORGE B. WILSON. Cars bought and sold.—and I followed Tom inside. (Chapter 2)
“Terrible place, isn’t it,” said Tom, exchanging a frown with Doctor Eckleburg. “Awful.” It does her good to get away.”
The eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleburg look over a vast decaying wasteland known as The Valley of Ashes. This trash heap has come to symbolize the death of the American Dream through moral degradation.
All the people in the Twenties were striving for a huge slice of the economic pie of fortune; however, in this struggle they gave up their souls in exchange for their wealth. The eyes of a dead God look out over the emptiness of a dead dream.
The valley of ashes is bounded on one side by a small foul river, and, when the drawbridge is up to let barges through, the passengers on waiting trains can stare at the dismal scene for as long as half an hour.
