Manchurian Books

George
Ponderevo, F.R.S., Sidney Ewart, R.I.P. Look at the rows of 'em!"
He paused. "Do you see that hand? The hand, I mean, pointing upward,
on the top of a blunted obelisk. Yes. Well, that's what I do for a
living--when I'm not thinking, or drinking, or prowling, or making love,
or pretending I'm trying to be a sculptor without either the money
or the morals for a model. See? And I do those hearts afire and those
pensive angel guardians with the palm of peace. Damned well I do 'em and
damned cheap! I'm a sweated victim, Ponderevo..."
That was the way of it, anyhow. I drank deep of talk that day; we went
into theology, into philosophy; I had my first glimpse of socialism. I
felt as though I had been silent in a silence since I and he had parted.
At the thought of socialism Ewart's moods changed for a time to a sort
of energy. "After all, all this confounded vagueness might be altered.
If you could get men to work together..."
It was a good talk that rambled through all the universe. I thought I
was giving my mind refreshment, but indeed it was dissipation.


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