Manchurian Books

I had my F.R.S. by the time I was
thirty-seven, and if I am not very wealthy poverty is as far from me as
the Spanish Inquisition. Suppose I had stamped down on the head of my
wandering curiosity, locked my imagination in a box just when it wanted
to grow out to things, worked by so-and-so's excellent method and
so-and-so's indications, where should I be now?
I may be all wrong in this. It may be I should be a far more efficient
man than I am if I had cut off all those divergent expenditures of
energy, plugged up my curiosity about society with more currently
acceptable rubbish or other, abandoned Ewart, evaded Marion instead of
pursuing her, concentrated. But I don't believe it!
However, I certainly believed it completely and was filled with remorse
on that afternoon when I sat dejectedly in Kensington Gardens and
reviewed, in the light of the Registrar's pertinent questions my first
two years in London.

CHAPTER THE SECOND
THE DAWN COMES, AND MY UNCLE APPEARS IN A NEW SILK HAT
I
Throughout my student days I had not seen my uncle.


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