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Hermione and Her Little Group of Serious Thinkers
Fothergil Finch, The Poet Of Revolt
Don Marquis
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       _ Isn't it odd how some of the most radical and
       advanced and virile of the leaders in the New
       Art and the New Thought don't look it at all?
       There's Fothergil Finch, for instance. Nobody
       could be more virile than Fothy is in his Soul.
       Fothy's Inner Ego, if you get what I mean, is a
       Giant in Revolt all the time.
       And yet to look at Fothy you wouldn't think he
       was a Modern Cave Man. Not that he looks like
       a weakling, you know. Butwell, if you get what
       I mean -- you'd think Fothy might write about
       violets instead of thunderbolts.
       Dear Papa is ENTIRELY mistaken about him.
       Only yesterday dear papa said to me, "Hermione,
       if you don't keep that damned little vers libre run
       away from here I'll put him to work, and he'll die
       of it."
       But you couldn't expect Papa to appreciate Fothy.
       Papa is SO reactionary and conservative.
       And Fothy's life is one long, grim, desperate
       struggle against Conventionality, and Social
       Injustice, and Smugness, and the Established Order, and
       Complacence. He is forever being a martyr to the
       New and True in Art and Life.
       Last night he read me his latest poem -- one of his
       greatest, he says -- in which he tries to tell just what
       his Real Self is. It goes:
       Look at me!
       Behold, I am founding a New Movement!
       Observe me. . . . I am in Revolt!
       I revolt!
       Now persecute me, persecute me, damn you,
       persecute me, curse you, persecute me!
       Philistine,
       Bourgeois,
       Slave,
       Serf,
       Capitalist,
       Respectabilities that you are,
       Persecute me!
       Bah!
       You ask me, do you, what am I in revolt against?
       Against you, fool, dolt, idiot, against you, against
       everything!
       Against Heavy, Hell and punctuation . . . against
       Life, Death, rhyme and rhythm . . .
       Persecute me, now, persecute me, curse you,
       persecute me!
       Slave that you are . . . what do Marriage,
       Tooth-brushes, Nail-files, the Decalogue,
       Handkerchiefs, Newton's Law of Gravity, Capital,
       Barbers, Property, Publishers, Courts, Rhyming
       Dictionaries, Clothes, Dollars, mean to Me?
       I am a Giant, I am a Titan, I am a Hercules of
       Liberty, I am Prometheus, I am the Jess Willard
       of the New Cerebral Pugilism, I am the Mod-
       ern Cave Man, I am the Comrade of the Cosmic
       Urge, I have kicked off the Boots of Superstition,
       and I run wild along the Milky Way
       without ingrowing toenails,
       I am I!
       Curse you, what are You?
       You are only You!
       Nothing more!
       Ha!
       Bah! . . . persecute me, now persecute me!
       Fothy always gets excited and trembles and
       chokes when he reads his own poetry, and while
       he was reading it Papa came into the room and
       disgraced himself by asking if there was
       any MONEY in that kind of poetry, and Fothy
       was so agitated that he fairly screamed when he
       said:
       "Money . . . money . . . curse money! Money
       is one of the things I am in revolt against. . . .
       Money is death and damnation to the free spirit!"
       Papa said he was sorry to hear that; he said one
       of his companies needed an ad writer, and he didn't
       have any objection to hiring a free spirit with a
       punch, but he couldn't consider getting anyone to
       write ads that hated money, for there was a salary
       attached to the job.
       And Fothy said: "You are trying to bribe me!
       Capitalism is casting its net over me! You are trying
       to make me a serf: trying to silence a Free
       Voice! But I will resist! I will not be enslaved!
       I will not write ads. I will not have a job.
       And then Papa said he was glad to hear Fothy's
       sentiments. He had been afraid, he said, that Fothy
       had matrimonial designs about me. And the
       man who married HIS daughter would probably have
       to stand for possessing a good deal of wealth, too,
       for he had always intended doing something very
       handsome for his son-in-law. So if Fothy didn't
       want money, he wouldn't want me, for an enormous
       amount of it would go to me.
       Papa, you know, thinks he can be awfully sarcastic.
       So many Earth Persons pride themselves on their
       sarcasm, don't you think?
       And Papa is an Earth Person entirely. I've got
       his horoscope. He isn't AT ALL spiritual.
       But you can image that the whole scene was
       FRIGHTFULLY embarrassing to me -- I will NEVER forgive Papa!
       And I haven't made up my mind AT ALL about
       Fothy. But what I do know is this: once I get my
       mind made up, I WILL NOT stand for opposition form
       ANY source.
       One must be an Individualist, or perish! _