Read Online Class Warfare by D. M. Fraser - Free Book Online

“Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.”
    4. “Moreover it is reasonable that things which share in a common nature and are counted as one, should not be altogether without relation to one another.”
    5. “To the confusion of our enemies.”
    Later I rehearsed the following peroration, to be recited solemnly, at the right time, to the accompaniment of drums:
    â€œSome of us were not killed outright. Some of us were dismembered slowly, over a period of weeks. Others were subjected to a multiplicity of tortures, as follows: The North American Telephone Torture, The Radio City Music Hall Torture, The Neo-Dada Mixed-Media Total Environment Torture. Despite extreme provocation, no one cracked. Tomaso Albinoni did not crack. Domenico Cimarosa did not crack. Benedetto Marcello did not crack. My dear Johann Pachelbel did not crack. Civility was maintained, precariously, despite extreme provocation. There remained time for reflection, for serious thought, for memories limpid, lucid as rain. I tried to remember what it had been like, when I was young and handsome, standing in luxurious rooms, drinking cocktails. The women in their little black dresses, their cultured pearls. The beautiful women, with their cultured voices, mascara, well-kept hands holding martinis, Manhattans, daiquiris, old-fashioneds, black Russians, in softly carpeted rooms. And the talk, the graceful talk of investments, dividends, worldly things. When I was young and handsome, on my way up, and sportive. When everyone was married. Farewell to Nova Scotia, the fogbound coast. Let your mountains dark and dreary be.”
    As things turned out, I was given no opportunity, or reason, to perform this recitation. I did, however, have a number of copies made, clandestinely, for distribution among the echelons.
    Toward the end of the rainy season, things began to happen which gradually convinced me that, whatever their corporate obligations, my associates were resolved to form a “united front” on my behalf. Intimations were made to this effect. One of the office girls, Shirley, made a little box, decorated with semi-precious stones, to hold my favourites among the letters. One of the liaison people, Frank Oppenhopper, offered to “put in a word” for me, “upstairs.” In due course I was permitted to see a memo, from the uppermost echelon, directing the “grapevine” to spare me any “scuttlebutt.” I was invited to participate in a consciousness-raising; subsequently I was asked, cordially, to join a Group. The letters were not mentioned.
    I have every confidence, now, that the issue will be allowed to die down—to become, in time, a dead issue. There have been suggestions that I apply for a transfer, within the company, to a more “productive” sector. Material incentives have been spoken of; fringe benefits have been discussed. It is subtly flattering to realize that these conversations are taking place, and that I am, in a way, their subject. The prospects are interesting, as we say (frequently) in the company.
    I have already been approached, informally, by an eminent collector of curiosities, an agent of the National Archives, and two courteous gentlemen from a distinguished private institution, making discreet enquiries regarding the letters, and my plans for their eventual disposal. I have advised interested parties to submit sealed bids, as in other transactions. Whatever profit accrues, from the sale of the letters, will of course be donated to the charity of my choice. (I may reserve the price of a bottle of bourbon, for my associates.) The company assures me that this action is perfectly acceptable to the upper echelons, and is in any event not within its jurisdiction, technically speaking. Independence is encouraged here, in the decision-making sphere.
    The rainy season is drawing to an end. I have cut my hair to the regulation length. I know now that I