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The Egotist Becomes a Personage
Therewastheghastly,stinkingcrushofthesubway—thecarcardsthrustingthemselvesatone,leeringoutlikedullboreswhograbyourarmwithanotherstory;thequerulousworryastowhethersomeoneisn’tleaningonyou;amandecidingnottogivehisseattoawoman,hatingherforit;thewomanhatinghimfornotdoingit;atworstasqualidphantasmagoriaofbreath,andoldclothonhumanbodiesandthesmellsofthefoodmenate—atbestjustpeople—toohotortoocold,tired,worried.
Hepicturedtheroomswherethesepeoplelived—wherethepatternsoftheblisteredwall-paperswereheavyreiteratedsunflowersongreenandyellowbackgrounds,wherethereweretinbathtubsandgloomyhallwaysandverdureless,unnamablespacesinbackofthebuildings;whereevenlovedressedasseduction—asordidmurderaroundthecorner,illicitmotherhoodintheflatabove.Andalwaystherewastheeconomicalstuffinessofindoorwinter,andthelongsummers,nightmaresofperspirationbetweenstickyenvelopingwalls...dirtyrestaurantswherecareless,tiredpeoplehelpedthemselvestosugarwiththeirownusedcoffee-spoons,leavinghardbrowndepositsinthebowl.
Itwasnotsobadwheretherewereonlymenorelseonlywomen;itwaswhentheywerevilelyherdedthatitallseemedsorotten.Itwassomeshamethatwomengaveoffathavingmenseethemtiredandpoor—itwassomedisgustthatmenhadforwomenwhoweretiredandpoor.
