Main Street Sinclair Lewis (books to read romance TXT) đ
- Author: Sinclair Lewis
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âBy golly, sheâs taking an awful big chance, though. Youâd expect her to learn by and by that I wonât be a parlor lizard. She says we try to âmake her over.â Well, sheâs always trying to make me over, from a perfectly good M.D. into a damn poet with a socialist necktie! Sheâd have a fit if she knew how many women would be willing to cuddle up to Friend Will and comfort him, if heâd give âem the chance! Thereâs still a few dames that think the old man isnât so darn unattractive! Iâm glad Iâve ducked all that woman-game since Iâve been married butâ âBe switched if sometimes I donât feel tempted to shine up to some girl that has sense enough to take life as it is; some frau that doesnât want to talk Longfellow all the time, but just hold my hand and say, âYou look all in, honey. Take it easy, and donât try to talk.â
âCarrie thinks sheâs such a whale at analyzing folks. Giving the town the once-over. Telling us where we get off. Why, sheâd simply turn up her toes and croak if she found out how much she doesnât know about the high old times a wise guy could have in this burg on the Q.T., if he wasnât faithful to his wife. But I am. At that, no matter what faults sheâs got, thereâs nobody here, no, nor in Minnâaplus either, thatâs as nice-looking and square and bright as Carrie. She ought to of been an artist or a writer or one of those things. But once she took a shot at living here, she ought to stick by it. Prettyâ âLord yes. But cold. She simply doesnât know what passion is. She simply hasnât got an Ă-dea how hard it is for a full-blooded man to go on pretending to be satisfied with just being endured. It gets awful tiresome, having to feel like a criminal just because Iâm normal. Sheâs getting so she doesnât even care for my kissing her. Wellâ â
âI guess I can weather it, same as I did earning my way through school and getting started in practise. But I wonder how long I can stand being an outsider in my own home?â
He sat up at the entrance of Mrs. Dave Dyer. She slumped into a chair and gasped with the heat. He chuckled, âWell, well, Maud, this is fine. Whereâs the subscription-list? What cause do I get robbed for, this trip?â
âI havenât any subscription-list, Will. I want to see you professionally.â
âAnd you a Christian Scientist? Have you given that up? What next? New Thought or Spiritualism?â
âNo, I have not given it up!â
âStrikes me itâs kind of a knock on the sisterhood, your coming to see a doctor!â
âNo, it isnât. Itâs just that my faith isnât strong enough yet. So there now! And besides, you are kind of consoling, Will. I mean as a man, not just as a doctor. Youâre so strong and placid.â
He sat on the edge of his desk, coatless, his vest swinging open with the thick gold line of his watch-chain across the gap, his hands in his trousers pockets, his big arms bent and easy. As she purred he cocked an interested eye. Maud Dyer was neurotic, religiocentric, faded; her emotions were moist, and her figure was unsystematicâ âsplendid thighs and arms, with thick ankles, and a body that was bulgy in the wrong places. But her milky skin was delicious, her eyes were alive, her chestnut hair shone, and there was a tender slope from her ears to the shadowy place below her jaw.
With unusual solicitude he uttered his stock phrase, âWell, what seems to be the matter, Maud?â
âIâve got such a backache all the time. Iâm afraid the organic trouble that you treated me for is coming back.â
âAny definite signs of it?â
âN-no, but I think youâd better examine me.â
âNope. Donât believe itâs necessary, Maud. To be honest, between old friends, I think your troubles are mostly imaginary. I canât really advise you to have an examination.â
She flushed, looked out of the window. He was conscious that his voice was not impersonal and even.
She turned quickly. âWill, you always say my troubles are imaginary. Why canât you be scientific? Iâve been reading an article about these new nerve-specialists, and they claim that lots of âimaginaryâ ailments, yes, and lots of real pain, too, are what they call psychoses, and they order a change in a womanâs way of living so she can get on a higher planeâ ââ
âWait! Wait! Whoa-up! Wait now! Donât mix up your Christian Science and your psychology! Theyâre two entirely different fads! Youâll be mixing in socialism next! Youâre as bad as Carrie, with your âpsychoses.â Why, Good Lord, Maud, I could talk about neuroses and psychoses and inhibitions and repressions and complexes just as well as any damn specialist, if I got paid for it, if I was in the city and had the nerve to charge the fees that those fellows do. If a specialist stung you for a hundred-dollar consultation-fee and told you to go to New York to duck Daveâs nagging, youâd do it, to save the hundred dollars! But you know meâ âIâm your neighborâ âyou see me mowing the lawnâ âyou figure Iâm just a plug general practitioner. If I said, âGo to New York,â Dave and you would laugh your heads off and say, âLook at the airs Will is putting on. What does he think he is?â
âAs a matter of fact, youâre right. You have a perfectly well-developed case of repression of sex instinct, and it raises the old Ned with your body. What you need is to get away from Dave and travel,
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