Мартин Иден

Chapter 32

           "Thenonecan’tmakealivingoutofpoetry?" 

           Martin’stoneandfacealikeshowedhisdejection. 

           "Certainlynot. Whatfoolexpectsto? Outofrhyming,yes. There’sBruce,andVirginiaSpring,andSedgwick. Theydoverynicely. ButpoetrydoyouknowhowVaughnMarlowmakeshisliving? teachinginaboys’cramming-jointdowninPennsylvania,andofallprivatelittlehellssuchabilletisthelimit. Iwouldn’ttradeplaceswithhimifhehadfiftyyearsoflifebeforehim. Andyethisworkstandsoutfromtheruckofthecontemporaryversifiersasabalasrubyamongcarrots. Andthereviewshegets! Damnthem,allofthem,thecrassmanikins!" 

           "Toomuchiswrittenbythemenwhocan’twriteaboutthemenwhodowrite,"Martinconcurred. "Why,IwasappalledatthequantitiesofrubbishwrittenaboutStevensonandhiswork." 

           "Ghoulsandharpies!"Brissendensnappedoutwithclickingteeth. "Yes,IknowthespawncomplacentlypeckingathimforhisFatherDamienletter,analyzinghim,weighinghim" 

           "Measuringhimbytheyardstickoftheirownmiserableegos,"Martinbrokein. 

           "Yes,that’sit,agoodphrase,mouthingandbeslimingtheTrue,andBeautiful,andGood,andfinallypattinghimonthebackandsaying,‘Gooddog,Fido. Faugh! ‘Thelittlechatteringdawsofmen,’RichardRealfcalledthemthenighthedied." 

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