Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Idiot by John Kendrick Bangs (top 10 non fiction books of all time .TXT) 📖
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"Thank you very much," said the Idiot. "That was precisely what I told Mr. Barlow, and I suggested a scheme to him by which his sole objection could be got around."
"You would start in business for yourself?" said Mr. Whitechoker.
"In a sense, yes," said the Idiot. "Only the way I put it was that a good confidential clerk would make a good partner for him, and he, after thinking it over, thought I was right."
"It certainly was a characteristically novel way out of the dilemma," said Mr. Brief, with a smile.
"I thought so myself, and so did he, so it was all arranged. On the 1st of next month I enter the firm, and on the 15th I am--ah--to be married."
The company warmly congratulated the Idiot upon his good-fortune, and he shortly left the room, more overcome by their felicitations than he had been by their arguments in the past.
The few days left passed quickly by, and there came a breakfast at Mrs. Pedagog's house that was a mixture of joy and sadness--joy for his happiness, sadness that that table should know the Idiot no more.
Among the wedding-gifts was a handsomely bound series of volumes, including a cyclopaedia, a dictionary, and a little tome of poems, the first output of the Poet. These came together, with a card inscribed, "From your Friends of the Breakfast Table," of whom the Idiot said, when Mrs. Idiot asked for information:
"They, my dear, next to yourself and my parents, are the dearest friends I ever had. We must have them up to breakfast some morning."
"Breakfast?" queried Mrs. Idiot.
"Yes, my dear," he replied, simply. "I should be afraid to meet them at any other meal. I am always at my best at breakfast, and they--well, they never are."
THE END
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"Thank you very much," said the Idiot. "That was precisely what I told Mr. Barlow, and I suggested a scheme to him by which his sole objection could be got around."
"You would start in business for yourself?" said Mr. Whitechoker.
"In a sense, yes," said the Idiot. "Only the way I put it was that a good confidential clerk would make a good partner for him, and he, after thinking it over, thought I was right."
"It certainly was a characteristically novel way out of the dilemma," said Mr. Brief, with a smile.
"I thought so myself, and so did he, so it was all arranged. On the 1st of next month I enter the firm, and on the 15th I am--ah--to be married."
The company warmly congratulated the Idiot upon his good-fortune, and he shortly left the room, more overcome by their felicitations than he had been by their arguments in the past.
The few days left passed quickly by, and there came a breakfast at Mrs. Pedagog's house that was a mixture of joy and sadness--joy for his happiness, sadness that that table should know the Idiot no more.
Among the wedding-gifts was a handsomely bound series of volumes, including a cyclopaedia, a dictionary, and a little tome of poems, the first output of the Poet. These came together, with a card inscribed, "From your Friends of the Breakfast Table," of whom the Idiot said, when Mrs. Idiot asked for information:
"They, my dear, next to yourself and my parents, are the dearest friends I ever had. We must have them up to breakfast some morning."
"Breakfast?" queried Mrs. Idiot.
"Yes, my dear," he replied, simply. "I should be afraid to meet them at any other meal. I am always at my best at breakfast, and they--well, they never are."
THE END
Imprint
Publication Date: 07-29-2010
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