[Illustration]
That's all very fine about _le mot juste_ but first the word must be
free.--But is there not some other way? It must come about gradually.
Why go down into hell when--Because words are not men, they have no
adjustments that need to be made. They are words. They can not be
anything but free or bound. Go about it any way you chose.
The word is the thing. If it is smeared with colors from right and left
what can it amount to?
I'd hate to have to live up there, she said with a frown. It was the
soul that spoke. In her words could be read the whole of democracy, the
entire life of the planet. It fell by chance on his ear but he was
ready, he was alert.
And the little dusty car: There drawn up at the gutter was a great truck
painted green and red. Close to it passed the little runabout while
conscious desire surged in its breast. Yes there he was the great
powerful mechanism, all in his new paint against the gutter while she
rolled by and saw--The Polish woman in the clinic, yellow hair slicked
back. Neck, arms, breast, waist, hips, etc. This is THE thing--The small
mechanism went swiftly by the great truck with fluttering heart in the
hope, the secret hope that perhaps, somehow he would notice--HE, the
great truck in his massiveness and paint, that somehow he would come to
her. Oh I wouldn't like to live up there!
FOG HOLDS UP LINERS say the head lines. It is a blackness, a choking
smother of dirty water in suspension.--You should have been here this
morning. You could look out and see nothing but a sea of cloud below us.
Right at our feet the fog began and stretched off as far as the eye
could perceive.
Up out of the trees with a whirr started the sparrows. With a loud
clatter the grouse got up at his feet. The ground was full of mushrooms.
Everything, no matter what it is must be re-valuated.
The red grass will soon open into feathers.
Peter Broom, yes sah, my grandfather sah, the greatest man in Prince
George County. He had three hundred children.
So many things, so many things: heat.
What then are you trying to say in THIS chapter? And what of your quest
of THE word? What of A.N.T. ant?
Why someone has offended Wells. He has retorted with NEO-ACADEMICIAN:
And: No new form of the novel required. Lack of substance always takes
the form of novelty mongering. Empire must be saved! Saved for the
proletariat.
On the side of the great machine it read: Standard Motor Gasoline, in
capital letters. A great green tank was built upon the red chassis, FULL
of gas. The little car looked and her heart leaped with shy wonder.
Save the words. Save the words from themselves. They are like children.
Young Men's Hebrew Association. Save them while they're still young.
Words must not be allowed to say, to do--Geld them. They are not REALLY
words they are geldings. Save the words. Yes, I repeat SAVE THE WORDS.
When Voronoff would have had words to transplant, interstitial words--he
said save the words.
And what has anything Wells says to do with serious writing. FIRST let
the words be free. The words are men, therefore they are not men. They
cannot, must not, will not be mustered of the people, by the people, for
the people. They are words. They will have their way.
Puh, puh, puh, puh! said the little car going up hill. But the great
green and red truck said nothing but continued to discharge its gasoline
into a tank buried in the ground near the gutter.
And the fog had coalesced into rain. Rain to soak the firewood the boys
had left beside their old fire, like good scouts, for those to come
after and the great car continued to discharge.