Manchurian Books

I came into the inner office suddenly one day--it must have been just
before the time of Marion's suit for restitution--and sat down before my
uncle.
"Look here," I said, "I'm sick of this."
"HulLO!" he answered, and put some papers aside.
"What's up, George?"
"Things are wrong."
"As how?"
"My life," I said, "it's a mess, an infinite mess."
"She's been a stupid girl, George," he said; "I partly understand. But
you're quit of her now, practically, and there's just as good fish in
the sea--"
"Oh! it's not that!" I cried. "That's only the part that shows. I'm
sick--I'm sick of all this damned rascality."
"Eh? Eh?" said my uncle. "WHAT--rascality?"
"Oh, YOU know. I want some STUFF, man. I want something to hold on to. I
shall go amok if I don't get it. I'm a different sort of beast from
you. You float in all this bunkum. _I_ feel like a man floundering in a
universe of soapsuds, up and downs, east and west. I can't stand it. I
must get my foot on something solid or--I don't know what."
I laughed at the consternation in his face.


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