Nick tells us about a stretch of land lying "about half way between West Egg and New York" which is so desolate that it is merely a "valley of ashes — a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into the ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses . . . [and] with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air." As the geographic midpoint between what is in effect the suburbs and the city, the valley of ashes, a dreamless, colorless place bound on one side by a putrid river, is home to the sorts of people that the wealthy citizens of the Eggs and the sophisticated people of the city are content to overlook.
