This Side of Paradise F. Scott Fitzgerald (mini ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: F. Scott Fitzgerald
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âThese quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who think they think, every question that comes up, youâll find his type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute itâs âthe brutality and inhumanity of these Prussiansââ âthe next itâs âwe ought to exterminate the whole German people.â They always believe that âthings are in a bad way now,â but they âhavenât any faith in these idealists.â One minute they call Wilson âjust a dreamer, not practicalââ âa year later they rail at him for making his dreams realities. They havenât clear logical ideas on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change. They donât think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they wonât see that if they donât pay the uneducated people their children are going to be uneducated too, and weâre going round and round in a circle. Thatâ âis the great middle class!â
The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the little man.
âYouâre catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?â
The little man made an attempt to smile and act as if the whole matter were so ridiculous as to be beneath notice. But Amory was not through.
âThe theory that people are fit to govern themselves rests on this man. If he can be educated to think clearly, concisely, and logically, freed of his habit of taking refuge in platitudes and prejudices and sentimentalisms, then Iâm a militant Socialist. If he canât, then I donât think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or hereafter.â
âI am both interested and amused,â said the big man. âYou are very young.â
âWhich may only mean that I have neither been corrupted nor made timid by contemporary experience. I possess the most valuable experience, the experience of the race, for in spite of going to college Iâve managed to pick up a good education.â
âYou talk glibly.â
âItâs not all rubbish,â cried Amory passionately. âThis is the first time in my life Iâve argued Socialism. Itâs the only panacea I know. Iâm restless. My whole generation is restless. Iâm sick of a system where the richest man gets the most beautiful girl if he wants her, where the artist without an income has to sell his talents to a button manufacturer. Even if I had no talents Iâd not be content to work ten years, condemned either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give some manâs son an automobile.â
âBut, if youâre not sureâ ââ
âThat doesnât matter,â exclaimed Amory. âMy position couldnât be worse. A social revolution might land me on top. Of course Iâm selfish. It seems to me Iâve been a fish out of water in too many outworn systems. I was probably one of the two dozen men in my class at college who got a decent education; still theyâd let any well-tutored flathead play football and I was ineligible, because some silly old men thought we should all profit by conic sections. I loathed the army. I loathed business. Iâm in love with change and Iâve killed my conscienceâ ââ
âSo youâll go along crying that we must go faster.â
âThat, at least, is true,â Amory insisted. âReform wonât catch up to the needs of civilization unless itâs made to. A laissez-faire policy is like spoiling a child by saying heâll turn out all right in the end. He willâ âif heâs made to.â
âBut you donât believe all this Socialist patter you talk.â
âI donât know. Until I talked to you I hadnât thought seriously about it. I wasnât sure of half of what I said.â
âYou puzzle me,â said the big man, âbut youâre all alike. They say Bernard Shaw, in spite of his doctrines, is the most exacting of all dramatists about his royalties. To the last farthing.â
âWell,â said Amory, âI simply state that Iâm a product of a versatile mind in a restless generationâ âwith every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones. Iâve thought I was right about life at various times, but faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isnât a seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game.â
For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked:
âWhat was your university?â
âPrinceton.â
The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles altered slightly.
âI sent my son to Princeton.â
âDid you?â
âPerhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last year in France.â
âI knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends.â
âHe wasâ âaâ âquite a fine boy. We were very close.â
Amory began to perceive a resemblance between the father and the dead son and he told himself that there had been all along a sense of familiarity. Jesse Ferrenby, the man who in college had borne off the crown that he had aspired to. It was all so far away. What little boys they had been, working for blue ribbonsâ â
The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a huge hedge and a tall iron fence.
âWonât you come in for lunch?â
Amory shook his head.
âThank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but Iâve got to get on.â
The big man held out his hand. Amory saw that the fact that he had known Jesse more than outweighed any disfavor he had created by his opinions. What ghosts were people with which to work! Even the little man insisted on shaking hands.
âGoodbye!â shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and started up the drive. âGood luck to you and bad luck to your theories.â
âSame to you, sir,â cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand.
âOut of the Fire, Out of the Little Roomâ
Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey roadside and looked at the frostbitten country. Nature as a rather
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