Character: Gordon Comstock

The horror is tearing through - money, money! For an apartment, taxes, salary will not be added, a bill from the headmaster, transport, shoes for children. Plus an insurance policy. And, my God, the wife is pregnant again! Did I laugh out loud enough when the boss joked yesterday?

Everyone whispers to himself: Winter

I recalled the picture of the early morning - black ant hordes of clerks flowing into the subway shafts, small insects, each with a briefcase in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and fear of a beggarly sack sharpens the heart. A soul-searching secret fear!

Damn poverty - crushes endless prison isolation.

Here it is, the worship of Business - God! Burn, burn

Damn money, nowhere without them! Tight with money - it means a miserable life, the itch of petty troubles, a lack of smoking, everywhere there is a feeling of a shameful failure.

What kind of friends do you have, what kind of communication is there when your pocket is empty?

Gordon had his eyes - the street somewhere near his home, but unfamiliar. Dull, shabby houses, mostly of one-bedroom apartment. Sooty brick, fences, whitewashed porches, Windows, Drapes with fringe, often between tickets "for" almost everywhere figs. The pathetic standard of decency. In General, the street of the sort who passionately dreamed to razbabahat to hell. Local residents are clerks, salesmen, petty traders, insurance agents, tram drivers, they know that they, the puppets, each movement led by the strings? No, they don't know. Not until so many pressing worries: to be born, to marry, to procreate children, to work hard, to die.

To fall is easy, competitors there do not jostle.

... lack of money does not save the money and just completely dominates them that without the despised, adored by the middle class "wealth" you're just a slave.

Gordon, what are you talking about? All the fault of women?
- In fact, to blame. It's same they firmly believed in the power of money. Men simply have nowhere to go. Forced humbly to provide the friends their houses, lawns, coats, cradles and rubber plants.
- Oh, Gordon! Women, whether invented money?
- Who invented it doesn't matter. It is important that women have created this cult. They have some kind of mystical worship of money, good and evil for them just "have money" or "no money". Look at you and me. Refuse to sleep with me because my pocket is empty. Yes! She a moment ago said so. <...> But if I had tomorrow, a decent income, you with me tomorrow will fall. Not because traded his nights, not so rough, of course. But deep-down mystical feeling that somehow a man without money don't deserve you. You're feeling weak a shovel. <...> And this myth is law women!
Gordon had enough of stupid men dollarsto! "Women do this" "women do that" as if they are all exactly the same.
- Of course, the same! What does any woman want except a safe family budget, two babies and a cozy apartment with a ficus?
- God, you and your aspidistras!
- No, dear, they are yours! Your sex that cultivates them!

Your case is a blood, DeWitt, and my prophecy.

In the cold light of morning performance firmly taken the evening before decisions are difficult.

Marriage is bad, the alternative is worse.