Book: Martin Eden. Page 2

Martin not once was glad that his friend did not live to see this. He hated a crowd, and now the crowd was thrown to the mercies of the for it is Holy and sacred.

He won the battle at the very moment when it seemed lost.

You are so young, Martin boy, so young. You will fly up high, but you have thin wings and the pattern on them - the finest pollen. Don't sear them.

Ideas are boiling in me, waiting for the incarnation in verse, in prose, in articles.

It is well known fact, when presented with a person's own thoughts, but still dolled up, it is flattering.

No, teachers of natural Sciences are let. This is a truly remarkable people. But nine tenth of philologists and linguists, these brainless parrots, would be very helpful to bust heads.

They recognize only common - in fact, they are generally accepted. They do not Shine with intelligence and common sticks to them as easily as the label of the brewery to the beer bottle. And their role is to take possession of young minds, students, to extinguish in them the slightest glimmer of independent original thought, if such exist, and put them in the common stamp.

Watch he walked beside Ruth, awakened hope, doubt and equally crazy.

And it was clear as day that he loves her, and she rejoiced in the evidence of his love - shining eyes, emitting a soft, trembling hands, constant hot flashing under the sun blush. She went even further, timidly encouraged him, but so gently that he did not know about it, but Ruth herself was hardly suspected, because it worked itself out. She trembled at the evidence of her feminine power and, as a true daughter of eve, with pleasure, playfully tortured him.

I wanted to praise the daring of the brave, hopeful, reckless lovers, the titans, who are fighting in suspense and tension, amidst the horror and tragedy, and life itself inferior to their onslaught. And the coffee stories, it seems hard, any praise of Mr. Butler, stingy hunters dollars, and gray rebound gray fellows. Maybe it's the fact that the editors of magazines such gray? Or they are simply afraid of life - and these writers and editors and readers?

And yet he had a dream - to achieve the ideal characteristic of the reporter of perfection where nothing can be something and even a very noisy thing.

Pale, skinny, almost dead - an invaluable boon for the newspaper sensation.

For one moment, across the abyss separating them was a bridge. But the feeling did not become more low. She didn't end up with him. He rose into the clouds and approached her.

Both of you, no doubt, a great doctor - he said, - but if you are even slightly interested in the opinion of the patient, let me tell you that you are not a good diagnostician. In essence, you both suffer the same disease, which was attributed to me. As for me, I'm not receptive.