This side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920

New York seemed not so much awakening as turning over in its bed. Pallid men rushed by, pinching together their coat-collars; a great swarm of tired, magpie girls from a department-store crowded along with shrieks of strident laughter, three to an umbrella; a squad of marching policemen passed, already miraculously protected by oilskin capes. The rain gave Amory a feeling of detachment, and the numerous unpleasant aspects of city life without money occurred to him in threatening procession. There was the ghastly, stinking crush of the subwaythe car cards thrusting themselves at one, leering out like dull bores who grab your arm with another story; the querulous worry as to whether some one isn’t leaning on you; a man deciding not to give his seat to a woman, hating her for it; the woman hating him for not doing it; at worst a squalid phantasmagoria of breath, and old cloth on human bodies and the smells of the food men ateat best just peopletoo hot or too cold, tired, worried.

He pictured the rooms where these people lived – where the patterns of the blistered wall-papers were heavy reiterated sunflowers on green and yellow backgrounds, where there were tin bathtubs and gloomy hallways and verdureless, unnamable spaces in back of the buildings; where even love dressed as seductiona sordid murder around the corner, illicit motherhood in the flat above. And always there was the economical stuffiness of indoor winter, and the long summers, nightmares of perspiration between sticky enveloping walls … dirty restaurants where careless, tired people helped themselves to sugar with their own used coffee-spoons, leaving hard brown deposits in the bowl. It was not so bad where there were only men or else only women; it was when they were vilely herded that it all seemed so rotten. It was some shame that women gave off at having men see them tired and poorit was some disgust that men had for women who were tired and poor. It was dirtier than any battle-field he had seen, harder to contemplate than any actual hardship moulded of mire and sweat and danger, it was an atmosphere wherein birth and marriage and death were loathsome, secret things. He remembered one day in the subway when a delivery boy had brought in a great funeral wreath of fresh flowers, how the smell of it had suddenly cleared the air and given every one in the car a momentary glow.

“I detest poor people,” thought Amory suddenly. “I hate them for being poor. Poverty may have been beautiful once, but it’s rotten now. It’s the ugliest thing in the world. It’s essentially cleaner to be corrupt and rich than it is to be innocent and poor.” He seemed to see again a figure whose significance had once impressed hima well-dressed young man gazing from a club window on Fifth Avenue and saying something to his companion with a look of utter disgust. Probably, thought Amory, what he said was: “My God! Aren’t people horrible!” Never before in his life had Amory considered poor people. He thought cynically how completely he was lacking in all human sympathy. O. Henry had found in these people romance, pathos, love, hateAmory saw only coarseness, physical filth, and stupidity. He made no self-accusations: never any more did he reproach himself for feelings that were natural and sincere. He accepted all his reactions as a part of him, unchangeable, unmoral. This problem of poverty transformed, magnified, attached to some grander, more dignified attitude might some day even be his problem; at present it roused only his profound distaste. He walked over to Fifth Avenue, dodging the blind, black menace of umbrellas, and standing in front of Delmonico’s hailed an auto-bus. Buttoning his coat closely around him he climbed to the roof, where he rode in solitary state through the thin, persistent rain, stung into alertness by the cool moisture perpetually reborn on his cheek.Somewhere in his mind a conversation began, rather resumed its place in his attention. It was composed not of two voices, but of one, which acted alike as questioner and answerer:

Question.Well, what’s the situation?

Answer.That I have about twenty-four dollars to my name.

Q.You have the Lake Geneva estate.

A.But I intend to keep it.

Q.Can you live?

A.I can’t imagine not being able to. People make money in books and I’ve found that I can always do the things that people do in books. Really they are the only things I can do. Q.Be definite.

A.I don’t know what I’ll donor have I much curiosity. To-morrow I’m going to leave New York for good. It’s a bad town unless you’re on top of it.

Q.Do you want a lot of money?

A.No. I am merely afraid of being poor. Q.Very afraid?

A.Just passively afraid.

Q.Where are you drifting?

A.Don’t ask me!

Q.Don’t you care?

A.Rather. I don’t want to commit moral suicide.

Q.Have you no interests left?

A.None. I’ve no more virtue to lose. Just as a cooling pot gives off heat, so all through youth and adolescence we give off calories of virtue. That’s what’s called ingenuousness.

Q.An interesting idea.

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About alice kwidamozo

I'm the spokesperson for a group of 19-year old French students (8 witches and 1 wizard - Ariane, Arielle, Claire, Delphine, Hélène, Iris, Laure, Marie, Michael) preparing the most selective entrance exam to ''Normale Sup''. This blog is meant to keep a record of some of the discussions we have in our English literature class. And Tom Waits wrote a song about me : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEj-mrwwaxo
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3 Responses to This side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920

  1. Pingback: ”It’s essentially cleaner to be corrupt and rich than it is to be innocent and poor.” « alicekwidamozo

  2. Pingback: From every window there are beauties to be seen … « alicekwidamozo

  3. Pingback: Feeling outside (a few more reflections about This side of Paradise) « alicekwidamozo

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