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THE BIG MAN WITH GOGGLES

 

On the day that Amory started on his walk to Princeton the sky was a

colorless vault, cool, high and barren of the threat of rain. It was a

gray day, that least fleshly of all weathers; a day of dreams and far

hopes and clear visions. It was a day easily associated with those

abstract truths and purities that dissolve in the sunshine or fade out

in mocking laughter by the light of the moon. The trees and clouds

were carved in classical severity; the sounds of the countryside had

harmonized to a monotone, metallic as a trumpet, breathless as the

Grecian urn.

 

The day had put Amory in such a contemplative mood that he caused much

annoyance to several motorists who were forced to slow up considerably

or else run him down. So engrossed in his thoughts was he that he was

scarcely surprised at that strange phenomenon--cordiality manifested

within fifty miles of Manhattan--when a passing car slowed down

beside him and a voice hailed him. He looked up and saw a magnificent

Locomobile in which sat two middle-aged men, one of them small and

anxious looking, apparently an artificial growth on the other who was

large and begoggled and imposing.

 

"Do you want a lift?" asked the apparently artificial growth, glancing

from the corner of his eye at the imposing man as if for some habitual,

silent corroboration.

 

"You bet I do. Thanks."

 

The chauffeur swung open the door, and, climbing in, Amory settled

himself in the middle of the back seat. He took in his companions

curiously. The chief characteristic of the big man seemed to be a

great confidence in himself set off against a tremendous boredom with

everything around him. That part of his face which protruded under the

goggles was what is generally termed "strong"; rolls of not undignified

fat had collected near his chin; somewhere above was a wide thin

mouth and the rough model for a Roman nose, and, below, his shoulders

collapsed without a struggle into the powerful bulk of his chest and

belly. He was excellently and quietly dressed. Amory noticed that he

was inclined to stare straight at the back of the chauffeur's head as if

speculating steadily but hopelessly some baffling hirsute problem.

 

The smaller man was remarkable only for his complete submersion in the

personality of the other. He was of that lower secretarial type who

at forty have engraved upon their business cards: "Assistant to the

President," and without a sigh consecrate the rest of their lives to

second-hand mannerisms.

 

"Going far?" asked the smaller man in a pleasant disinterested way.

 

"Quite a stretch."

 

"Hiking for exercise?"

 

"No," responded Amory succinctly, "I'm walking because I can't afford to

ride."

 

"Oh."



 

Then again:

 

"Are you looking for work? Because there's lots of work," he continued

rather testily. "All this talk of lack of work. The West is especially

short of labor." He expressed the West with a sweeping, lateral gesture.

Amory nodded politely.

 

"Have you a trade?"

 

No--Amory had no trade.

 

"Clerk, eh?"

 

No--Amory was not a clerk.

 

"Whatever your line is," said the little man, seeming to agree wisely

with something Amory had said, "now is the time of opportunity and

business openings." He glanced again toward the big man, as a lawyer

grilling a witness glances involuntarily at the jury.

 

Amory decided that he must say something and for the life of him could

think of only one thing to say.

 

"Of course I want a great lot of money--"

 

The little man laughed mirthlessly but conscientiously.

 

"That's what every one wants nowadays, but they don't want to work for

it."

 

"A very natural, healthy desire. Almost all normal people want to be

rich without great effort--except the financiers in problem plays, who

want to 'crash their way through.' Don't you want easy money?"

 

"Of course not," said the secretary indignantly.

 

"But," continued Amory disregarding him, "being very poor at present I

am contemplating socialism as possibly my forte."

 

Both men glanced at him curiously.

 

"These bomb throwers--" The little man ceased as words lurched

ponderously from the big man's chest.

 

"If I thought you were a bomb thrower I'd run you over to the Newark

jail. That's what I think of Socialists."

 

Amory laughed.

 

"What are you," asked the big man, "one of these parlor Bolsheviks,

one of these idealists? I must say I fail to see the difference.

The idealists loaf around and write the stuff that stirs up the poor

immigrants."

 

"Well," said Amory, "if being an idealist is both safe and lucrative, I

might try it."

 

"What's your difficulty? Lost your job?"

 

"Not exactly, but--well, call it that."

 

"What was it?"

 

"Writing copy for an advertising agency."

 

"Lots of money in advertising."

 

Amory smiled discreetly.

 

"Oh, I'll admit there's money in it eventually. Talent doesn't starve

any more. Even art gets enough to eat these days. Artists draw your

magazine covers, write your advertisements, hash out rag-time for

your theatres. By the great commercializing of printing you've found a

harmless, polite occupation for every genius who might have carved his

own niche. But beware the artist who's an intellectual also. The artist

who doesn't fit--the Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory

Blaine--"

 

"Who's he?" demanded the little man suspiciously.

 

"Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very

well known at present."

 

The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather

suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him.

 

"What are you laughing at?"

 

"These _intellectual_ people--"

 

"Do you know what it means?"

 

The little man's eyes twitched nervously.

 

"Why, it _usually_ means--"

 

"It _always_ means brainy and well-educated," interrupted Amory. "It

means having an active knowledge of the race's experience." Amory

decided to be very rude. He turned to the big man. "The young man," he

indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one

says bell-boy, with no implication of youth, "has the usual muddled

connotation of all popular words."

 

"You object to the fact that capital controls printing?" said the big

man, fixing him with his goggles.

 

"Yes--and I object to doing their mental work for them. It seemed to

me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in

overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it."

 

"Here now," said the big man, "you'll have to admit that the laboring

man is certainly highly paid--five and six hour days--it's ridiculous.

You can't buy an honest day's work from a man in the trades-unions."

 

"You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory. "You people never

make concessions until they're wrung out of you."

 

"What people?"

 

"Your class; the class I belonged to until recently; those who by

inheritance or industry or brains or dishonesty have become the moneyed

class."

 

"Do you imagine that if that road-mender over there had the money he'd

be any more willing to give it up?"

 

"No, but what's that got to do with it?"

 

The older man considered.

 

"No, I'll admit it hasn't. It rather sounds as if it had though."

 

"In fact," continued Amory, "he'd be worse. The lower classes are

narrower, less pleasant and personally more selfish--certainly more

stupid. But all that has nothing to do with the question."

 

"Just exactly what is the question?"

 

Here Amory had to pause to consider exactly what the question was.

 

*****

 

AMORY COINS A PHRASE

 

"When life gets hold of a brainy man of fair education," began Amory

slowly, "that is, when he marries he becomes, nine times out of ten, a

conservative as far as existing social conditions are concerned. He may

be unselfish, kind-hearted, even just in his own way, but his first job

is to provide and to hold fast. His wife shoos him on, from ten thousand

a year to twenty thousand a year, on and on, in an enclosed treadmill

that hasn't any windows. He's done! Life's got him! He's no help! He's a

spiritually married man."

 

Amory paused and decided that it wasn't such a bad phrase.

 

"Some men," he continued, "escape the grip. Maybe their wives have no

social ambitions; maybe they've hit a sentence or two in a 'dangerous

book' that pleased them; maybe they started on the treadmill as I did

and were knocked off. Anyway, they're the congressmen you can't

bribe, the Presidents who aren't politicians, the writers, speakers,

scientists, statesmen who aren't just popular grab-bags for a half-dozen

women and children."

 

"He's the natural radical?"

 

"Yes," said Amory. "He may vary from the disillusioned critic like old

Thornton Hancock, all the way to Trotsky. Now this spiritually unmarried

man hasn't direct power, for unfortunately the spiritually married man,

as a by-product of his money chase, has garnered in the great newspaper,

the popular magazine, the influential weekly--so that Mrs. Newspaper,

Mrs. Magazine, Mrs. Weekly can have a better limousine than those oil

people across the street or those cement people 'round the corner."

 

"Why not?"

 

"It makes wealthy men the keepers of the world's intellectual conscience

and, of course, a man who has money under one set of social institutions

quite naturally can't risk his family's happiness by letting the clamor

for another appear in his newspaper."

 

"But it appears," said the big man.

 

"Where?--in the discredited mediums. Rotten cheap-papered weeklies."

 

"All right--go on."

 

"Well, my first point is that through a mixture of conditions of which

the family is the first, there are these two sorts of brains. One sort

takes human nature as it finds it, uses its timidity, its weakness, and

its strength for its own ends. Opposed is the man who, being spiritually

unmarried, continually seeks for new systems that will control or

counteract human nature. His problem is harder. It is not life that's

complicated, it's the struggle to guide and control life. That is his

struggle. He is a part of progress--the spiritually married man is not."

 

The big man produced three big cigars, and proffered them on his huge

palm. The little man took one, Amory shook his head and reached for a

cigarette.

 

"Go on talking," said the big man. "I've been wanting to hear one of you

fellows."

 

*****

 

GOING FASTER

 

"Modern life," began Amory again, "changes no longer century by century,

but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before--populations

doubling, civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations,

economic interdependence, racial questions, and--we're _dawdling_

along. My idea is that we've got to go very much faster." He slightly

emphasized the last words and the chauffeur unconsciously increased the

speed of the car. Amory and the big man laughed; the little man laughed,

too, after a pause.

 

"Every child," said Amory, "should have an equal start. If his father

can endow him with a good physique and his mother with some common sense

in his early education, that should be his heritage. If the father can't

give him a good physique, if the mother has spent in chasing men the

years in which she should have been preparing herself to educate her

children, so much the worse for the child. He shouldn't be artificially

bolstered up with money, sent to these horrible tutoring schools,

dragged through college... Every boy ought to have an equal start."

 

"All right," said the big man, his goggles indicating neither approval

nor objection.

 

"Next I'd have a fair trial of government ownership of all industries."

 

"That's been proven a failure."

 

"No--it merely failed. If we had government ownership we'd have the

best analytical business minds in the government working for something

besides themselves. We'd have Mackays instead of Burlesons; we'd have

Morgans in the Treasury Department; we'd have Hills running interstate

commerce. We'd have the best lawyers in the Senate."

 

"They wouldn't give their best efforts for nothing. McAdoo--"

 

"No," said Amory, shaking his head. "Money isn't the only stimulus that

brings out the best that's in a man, even in America."

 

"You said a while ago that it was."

 

"It is, right now. But if it were made illegal to have more than a

certain amount the best men would all flock for the one other reward

which attracts humanity--honor."

 

The big man made a sound that was very like _boo_.

 

"That's the silliest thing you've said yet."

 

"No, it isn't silly. It's quite plausible. If you'd gone to college

you'd have been struck by the fact that the men there would work twice

as hard for any one of a hundred petty honors as those other men did who

were earning their way through."

 

"Kids--child's play!" scoffed his antagonist.

 

"Not by a darned sight--unless we're all children. Did you ever see

a grown man when he's trying for a secret society--or a rising family

whose name is up at some club? They'll jump when they hear the sound of

the word. The idea that to make a man work you've got to hold gold in

front of his eyes is a growth, not an axiom. We've done that for so long

that we've forgotten there's any other way. We've made a world where

that's necessary. Let me tell you"--Amory became emphatic--"if there

were ten men insured against either wealth or starvation, and offered a

green ribbon for five hours' work a day and a blue ribbon for ten hours'

work a day, nine out of ten of them would be trying for the blue ribbon.

That competitive instinct only wants a badge. If the size of their house

is the badge they'll sweat their heads off for that. If it's only a

blue ribbon, I damn near believe they'll work just as hard. They have in

other ages."

 

"I don't agree with you."

 

"I know it," said Amory nodding sadly. "It doesn't matter any more

though. I think these people are going to come and take what they want

pretty soon."

 

A fierce hiss came from the little man.

 

"_Machine-guns!_"

 

"Ah, but you've taught them their use."

 

The big man shook his head.

 

"In this country there are enough property owners not to permit that

sort of thing."

 

Amory wished he knew the statistics of property owners and non-property

owners; he decided to change the subject.

 

But the big man was aroused.

 

"When you talk of 'taking things away,' you're on dangerous ground."

 

"How can they get it without taking it? For years people have been

stalled off with promises. Socialism may not be progress, but the threat

of the red flag is certainly the inspiring force of all reform. You've

got to be sensational to get attention."

 

"Russia is your example of a beneficent violence, I suppose?"

 

"Quite possibly," admitted Amory. "Of course, it's overflowing just as

the French Revolution did, but I've no doubt that it's really a great

experiment and well worth while."

 

"Don't you believe in moderation?"

 

"You won't listen to the moderates, and it's almost too late. The truth

is that the public has done one of those startling and amazing things

that they do about once in a hundred years. They've seized an idea."

 

"What is it?"

 

"That however the brains and abilities of men may differ, their stomachs

are essentially the same."

 

*****

 

THE LITTLE MAN GETS HIS

 

"If you took all the money in the world," said the little man with much

profundity, "and divided it up in equ--"

 

"Oh, shut up!" said Amory briskly and, paying no attention to the little

man's enraged stare, he went on with his argument.

 

"The human stomach--" he began; but the big man interrupted rather

impatiently.

 

"I'm letting you talk, you know," he said, "but please avoid stomachs.

I've been feeling mine all day. Anyway, I don't agree with one-half

you've said. Government ownership is the basis of your whole argument,

and it's invariably a beehive of corruption. Men won't work for blue

ribbons, that's all rot."

 

When he ceased the little man spoke up with a determined nod, as if

resolved this time to have his say out.

 

"There are certain things which are human nature," he asserted with an

owl-like look, "which always have been and always will be, which can't

be changed."

 

Amory looked from the small man to the big man helplessly.

 

"Listen to that! _That's_ what makes me discouraged with progress.

_Listen_ to that! I can name offhand over one hundred natural phenomena

that have been changed by the will of man--a hundred instincts in man

that have been wiped out or are now held in check by civilization. What

this man here just said has been for thousands of years the last refuge

of the associated mutton-heads of the world. It negates the efforts of

every scientist, statesman, moralist, reformer, doctor, and philosopher

that ever gave his life to humanity's service. It's a flat impeachment

of all that's worth while in human nature. Every person over twenty-five

years old who makes that statement in cold blood ought to be deprived of

the franchise."

 

The little man leaned back against the seat, his face purple with rage.

Amory continued, addressing his remarks to the big man.

 

"These quarter-educated, stale-minded men such as your friend here, who

_think_ they think, every question that comes up, you'll find his

type in the usual ghastly muddle. One minute it's 'the brutality and

inhumanity of these Prussians'--the next it's 'we ought to exterminate

the whole German people.' They always believe that 'things are in a bad

way now,' but they 'haven't any faith in these idealists.' One minute

they call Wilson 'just a dreamer, not practical'--a year later they rail

at him for making his dreams realities. They haven't clear logical ideas

on one single subject except a sturdy, stolid opposition to all change.

They don't think uneducated people should be highly paid, but they won't

see that if they don't pay the uneducated people their children are

going to be uneducated too, and we're going round and round in a circle.

That--is the great middle class!"

 

The big man with a broad grin on his face leaned over and smiled at the

little man.

 

"You're catching it pretty heavy, Garvin; how do you feel?"

 

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.

 

"The 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 I'm a militant Socialist. If he can't, then I

don't think it matters much what happens to man or his systems, now or

hereafter."

 

"I am both interested and amused," said the big man. "You are very

young."

 

"Which 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 I've managed to

pick up a good education."

 

"You talk glibly."

 

"It's not all rubbish," cried Amory passionately. "This is the first

time in my life I've argued Socialism. It's the only panacea I know. I'm

restless. My whole generation is restless. I'm 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 I'd not be content to work ten

years, condemned either to celibacy or a furtive indulgence, to give

some man's son an automobile."

 

"But, if you're not sure--"

 

"That doesn't matter," exclaimed Amory. "My position couldn't be worse.

A social revolution might land me on top. Of course I'm selfish. It

seems to me I've 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 they'd 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. I'm in love with change and I've killed my conscience--"

 

"So you'll go along crying that we must go faster."

 

"That, at least, is true," Amory insisted. "Reform won't catch up to

the needs of civilization unless it's made to. A laissez-faire policy is

like spoiling a child by saying he'll turn out all right in the end. He

will--if he's made to."

 

"But you don't believe all this Socialist patter you talk."

 

"I don't know. Until I talked to you I hadn't thought seriously about

it. I wasn't sure of half of what I said."

 

"You puzzle me," said the big man, "but you're 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."

 

"Well," said Amory, "I simply state that I'm a product of a versatile

mind in a restless generation--with 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. I've thought I was right about life at various

times, but faith is difficult. One thing I know. If living isn't a

seeking for the grail it may be a damned amusing game."

 

For a minute neither spoke and then the big man asked:

 

"What was your university?"

 

"Princeton."

 

The big man became suddenly interested; the expression of his goggles

altered slightly.

 

"I sent my son to Princeton."

 

"Did you?"

 

"Perhaps you knew him. His name was Jesse Ferrenby. He was killed last

year in France."

 

"I knew him very well. In fact, he was one of my particular friends."

 

"He was--a--quite a fine boy. We were very close."

 

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 ribbons--

 

The car slowed up at the entrance to a great estate, ringed around by a

huge hedge and a tall iron fence.

 

"Won't you come in for lunch?"

 

Amory shook his head.

 

"Thank you, Mr. Ferrenby, but I've got to get on."

 

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.

 

"Good-by!" shouted Mr. Ferrenby, as the car turned the corner and

started up the drive. "Good luck to you and bad luck to your theories."

 

"Same to you, sir," cried Amory, smiling and waving his hand.

 

*****

 

"OUT OF THE FIRE, OUT OF THE LITTLE ROOM"

 

Eight hours from Princeton Amory sat down by the Jersey roadside and

looked at the frost-bitten country. Nature as a rather coarse phenomenon

composed largely of flowers that, when closely inspected, appeared

moth-eaten, and of ants that endlessly traversed blades of grass, was

always disillusioning; nature represented by skies and waters and far

horizons was more likable. Frost and the promise of winter thrilled him

now, made him think of a wild battle between St. Regis and Groton,

ages ago, seven years ago--and of an autumn day in France twelve months

before when he had lain in tall grass, his platoon flattened down close

around him, waiting to tap the shoulders of a Lewis gunner. He saw the

two pictures together with somewhat the same primitive exaltation--two

games he had played, differing in quality of acerbity, linked in a way

that differed them from Rosalind or the subject of labyrinths which

were, after all, the business of life.

 

"I am selfish," he thought.

 

"This is not a quality that will change when I 'see human suffering' or

'lose my parents' or 'help others.'

 

"This selfishness is not only part of me. It is the most living part.

 

"It is by somehow transcending rather than by avoiding that selfishness

that I can bring poise and balance into my life.

 

"There is no virtue of unselfishness that I cannot use. I can make

sacrifices, be charitable, give to a friend, endure for a friend, lay

down my life for a friend--all because these things may be the best

possible expression of myself; yet I have not one drop of the milk of

human kindness."

 

The problem of evil had solidified for Amory into the problem of sex. He

was beginning to identify evil with the strong phallic worship in Brooke

and the early Wells. Inseparably linked with evil was beauty--beauty,

still a constant rising tumult; soft in Eleanor's voice, in an old song

at night, rioting deliriously through life like superimposed waterfalls,

half rhythm, half darkness. Amory knew that every time he had reached

toward it longingly it had leered out at him with the grotesque face of

evil. Beauty of great art, beauty of all joy, most of all the beauty of

women.

 

After all, it had too many associations with license and indulgence.

Weak things were often beautiful, weak things were never good. And in

this new loneness of his that had been selected for what greatness he

might achieve, beauty must be relative or, itself a harmony, it would

make only a discord.

 

In a sense this gradual renunciation of beauty was the second step after

his disillusion had been made complete. He felt that he was leaving

behind him his chance of being a certain type of artist. It seemed so

much more important to be a certain sort of man.

 

His mind turned a corner suddenly and he found himself thinking of the

Catholic Church. The idea was strong in him that there was a certain

intrinsic lack in those to whom orthodox religion was necessary, and

religion to Amory meant the Church of Rome. Quite conceivably it was an

empty ritual but it was seemingly the only assimilative, traditionary

bulwark against the decay of morals. Until the great mobs could be

educated into a moral sense some one must cry: "Thou shalt not!" Yet

any acceptance was, for the present, impossible. He wanted time and

the absence of ulterior pressure. He wanted to keep the tree without

ornaments, realize fully the direction and momentum of this new start.

 

*****

 

The afternoon waned from the purging good of three o'clock to the golden

beauty of four. Afterward he walked through the dull ache of a setting

sun when even the clouds seemed bleeding and at twilight he came to a

graveyard. There was a dusky, dreamy smell of flowers and the ghost of a

new moon in the sky and shadows everywhere. On an impulse he considered

trying to open the door of a rusty iron vault built into the side of

a hill; a vault washed clean and covered with late-blooming, weepy

watery-blue flowers that might have grown from dead eyes, sticky to the

touch with a sickening odor.

 

Amory wanted to feel "William Dayfield, 1864."

 

He wondered that graves ever made people consider life in vain. Somehow

he could find nothing hopeless in having lived. All the broken columns

and clasped hands and doves and angels meant romances. He fancied that

in a hundred years he would like having young people speculate as to

whether his eyes were brown or blue, and he hoped quite passionately

that his grave would have about it an air of many, many years ago. It

seemed strange that out of a row of Union soldiers two or three made

him think of dead loves and dead lovers, when they were exactly like the

rest, even to the yellowish moss.

 

*****

 

Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible,

with here and there a late-burning light--and suddenly out of the clear

darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit

of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the

muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes

and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new

generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through

a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that

dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated

more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success;

grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man

shaken....

 

Amory, sorry for them, was still not sorry for himself--art, politics,

religion, whatever his medium should be, he knew he was safe now, free

from all hysteria--he could accept what was acceptable, roam, grow,

rebel, sleep deep through many nights....

 

There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot;

there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth--yet

the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility

and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized

dreams. But--oh, Rosalind! Rosalind!...

 

"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly.

 

And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had

determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the

personalities he had passed....

 

He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.

 

"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all."

 

 

Appendix: Production notes for eBook edition 11

 

The primary feature of edition 11 is restoration of em-dashes which

are missing from edition 10. (My favorite instance is "I won't belong"

rather than "I won't be--long".)

 

Characters which are 8-bit in the printed text were misrepresented in

edition 10. Edition 10 had some end-of-paragraph problems. A handful of

other minor errors are corrected.

 

Two volumes served as reference for edition 11: a 1960 reprint, and

an undated reprint produced sometime after 1948. There are a number of

differences between the volumes. Evidence suggests that the 1960 reprint

has been somewhat "modernized", and that the undated reprint is a

better match for the original 1920 printing. Therefore, when the volumes

differ, edition 11 more closely follows the undated reprint.

 

In edition 11, underscores are used to denote words and phrases

italicized for emphasis.

 

There is a section of text in book 2, chapter 3, beginning with "When

Vanity kissed Vanity," which is referred to as "poetry" but is formatted

as prose.

 

I considered, but decided against introducing an 8-bit version of

edition 11, in large part because the bulk of the 8-bit usage (as found

in the 1960 reprint) consists of words commonly used in their 7-bit

form:

 

Aeschylus blase cafe debut debutante elan elite Encyclopaedia

matinee minutiae paean regime soupcon unaesthetic

 

Less-commonly-used 8-bit word forms in this book include:

 

anaemic bleme coeur manoeuvered mediaevalist tete-a-tete

and the name "Borge".

 


Date: 2015-02-16; view: 560


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