The War of the Worlds H. G. Wells (nice books to read txt) đ
- Author: H. G. Wells
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âNot begun!â I exclaimed.
âNot begun. All thatâs happened so far is through our not having the sense to keep quietâ âworrying them with guns and such foolery. And losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasnât any more safety than where we were. They donât want to bother us yet. Theyâre making their thingsâ âmaking all the things they couldnât bring with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very likely thatâs why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of hitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, weâve got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. Thatâs how I figure it out. It isnât quite according to what a man wants for his species, but itâs about what the facts point to. And thatâs the principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progressâ âitâs all over. That gameâs up. Weâre beat.â
âBut if that is so, what is there to live for?â
The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.
âThere wonât be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so; there wonât be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If itâs amusement youâre after, I reckon the game is up. If youâve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, youâd better chuck âem away. They ainât no further use.â
âYou meanâ ââ
âI mean that men like me are going on livingâ âfor the sake of the breed. I tell you, Iâm grim set on living. And if Iâm not mistaken, youâll show what insides youâve got, too, before long. We arenât going to be exterminated. And I donât mean to be caught either, and tamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown creepers!â
âYou donât mean to sayâ ââ
âI do. Iâm going on, under their feet. Iâve got it planned; Iâve thought it out. We men are beat. We donât know enough. Weâve got to learn before weâve got a chance. And weâve got to live and keep independent while we learn. See! Thatâs what has to be done.â
I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the manâs resolution.
âGreat God!â cried I. âBut you are a man indeed!â And suddenly I gripped his hand.
âEh!â he said, with his eyes shining. âIâve thought it out, eh?â
âGo on,â I said.
âWell, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. Iâm getting ready. Mind you, it isnât all of us that are made for wild beasts; and thatâs what itâs got to be. Thatâs why I watched you. I had my doubts. Youâre slender. I didnât know that it was you, you see, or just how youâd been buried. All theseâ âthe sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that wayâ âtheyâd be no good. They havenât any spirit in themâ âno proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasnât one or the otherâ âLord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to workâ âIâve seen hundreds of âem, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear theyâd get dismissed if they didnât; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldnât be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundaysâ âfear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, theyâll come and be caught cheerful. Theyâll be quite glad after a bit. Theyâll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singersâ âI can imagine them. I can imagine them,â he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. âThereâll be any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. Thereâs hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that Iâve only begun to see clearly these last few days. Thereâs lots will take things as they areâ âfat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that itâs all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely youâve seen the same thing. Itâs energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit ofâ âwhat is it?â âeroticism.â
He paused.
âVery likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them to do tricksâ âwho knows?â âget sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us.â
âNo,â I cried, âthatâs impossible! No human beingâ ââ
âWhatâs the good of
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