Chapter 47 square the circle

At the risk of boring the reader, I must make a few digressions about geometry before I proceed with this tale of retribution. Things in nature move in circles; things man-made move in straight lines.Natural things are round; man-made things are angular.A person who gets lost in the snow always walks in a circle involuntarily; a city dweller whose feet are restricted by the rectangular streets and house floors always impels him to walk straight. The round eyes of a child symbolize innocence; the eyes of a woman who squint into a line when coquettish show affectation.A pursed mouth must signify cunning; who hasn't seen nature's most touching lyric poetry in a sincerely pursed kissing mouth?

Beauty is nature in its perfection; roundness is its chief attribute.See the full moon, the enchanted golden ball, the cupolas of the magnificent temples, the bilberry pies, the wedding rings, the circus rings, the bell to summon the waiters, and the "round" at the toast. On the other hand, straight lines indicate that things in nature are distorted.Just imagine, if the loincloth of the statue of Venus is replaced by a straight smock, what would it look like! When we walk in a straight line and turn at a right angle, our nature begins to change.Natural things are more easy-going than man-made things, and they often make compromises and try to adapt to the more severe laws of man-made things.The results were rather odd - for example: the winning exhibit at the Chrysanthemum Fair, Methanol Whiskey, Missouri that voted Republican, Potstickers Cauliflower and New Yorkers.

In the big cities, the loss of originality is the fastest.The reason is geometric, not moral.The straight lines of the streets and buildings of the great cities, the rigidity of laws and social customs, the orderliness of sidewalks, the strict, relentless, silent, intransigent rules of urban life--even entertainment and sports--all these Contempt for the arc of nature with indifference and contempt. So we can say that big cities prove the problem of squaring the circle.We might add that this mathematical introduction sheds light on the context of a feud between two Kentucky families, brought into the city and adapted to its angle by the mores of the city.

The feud was formed between the Forwell and Harkness families of the Cumberland Hills.The first casualty of the feud was Bill Harkness's hounds.The Harknesses suffered this tragic loss, and immediately killed the leader of the Fauville clan as compensation.Fauville's relatives were eager for revenge.They greased their squirrel guns and made Bill Harkness follow his hounds to another country where hunting was easy and the game would come to you. For forty years, the two families have retaliated against each other endlessly.The Harknesses were shot one by one, in different circumstances: some were plowing the fields, some were at home at night under the light of the window, some were returning from a field meeting, and some were asleep, Some in the middle of a duel, sober and drunk, alone and with their families, prepared and unexpected.Members of the Fauville family were also cut off branch by branch, and the methods of killing were similar, as local customs dictated and permitted.

After the branches of both families were thus pruned, only one member remained before long.Carl Harkness, perhaps realizing then that to continue the entanglement would make their feud too personal, abruptly left the Cumberland Hills to avoid the vengeance of Sam, the last of the Forwells.The Cumberland Ridges were relieved at last. A year later, Sam Forwell heard that the friend who was still alive was living in New York City.Sam turned over the big iron pot in the back yard, scraped off a little soot, mixed in lard, and polished his boots with the mixture.He put on the suit that he had bought in a butternut color and was now dyed black, for a white shirt and white collar, and in his felt bag he stuffed some strong linen underclothes.He took down the squirrel gun from the hook, but put it back with a sigh.However reasonable the habit was in the Cumberland Ridges, New York might not approve of him shooting squirrels among the skyscrapers on Broadway.He found an old and reliable Colt revolver from a dresser drawer, and it seemed the best weapon for adventure and vengeance in the city.Sam carried it in the felt bag, along with a hunting knife in a leather sheath.The last of the Fauvilles mounted their mules and set off for the lowland railway station.Before he set off, he looked back grimly from the saddle at a small cluster of white pine planks in the fir grove that marked the Fauville family cemetery.

It was late when Sam Forwell arrived in New York.His actions and life still follow the free circular motion of nature, and he does not see the terrible, ruthless, active, and vicious methods of the big city hidden in the dark, ready to surround his round heart and head, according to He was transformed by the altered shape of the thousands of victims.A carriage picked him out of the eddy of people, as Sam himself used to pick a nut out of a heap of wind-blown autumn leaves, and whisked him off to a house with his boots and blankets. A hotel that fits the bag. The next morning, the last remaining Fauville descendants raided the city that had sheltered the last of the Harknesses.He fastened the Colt with a narrow leather belt and concealed it under his coat; he carried his hunting knife half an inch from the collar of his coat between his shoulder blades.He knew only two things: that Carl Harkness was driving a delivery wagon in the city, and that he himself, Sam Forwell, was coming to kill him.Sam's eyes turned red as he stepped onto the pavement, and a wave of hereditary hatred rose in his heart.

The hustle and bustle of several streets in the city center attracted him.He was almost ready to see Karl coming towards him in the street, in shirt shirt only, flagon and horsewhip in hand, just as he might be or meet Karl.But an hour passed, and Carl didn't show up.Perhaps he was lying in wait, behind a door or window, about to shoot Sam.Sam watched the doors and windows warily for a while. At noon the city, tired of playing like a cat teasing a mouse, suddenly squeezed towards him in its straight line. Sam Forwell stood where the two straight arteries of the city crossed each other.He looked around and found that the earth had been thrown out of its orbit, forced into a flat surface with edges and corners by the spirit level and tape measure.Everything in life runs along rails and grooves, according to certain institutions and procedures, with certain boundaries.The root of life is the cube root; the measure of existence is the square product.People came and went in straight rows; the terrible uproar and crash dazed him.

Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building.Thousands of people passed by him, but none of them turned to look at him.He had a sudden unfounded fear, as if he were dead, a ghost, and that was why people ignored him.Then the city hit him with loneliness. A fat man slipped out of the crowd and stood waiting for a car, only a few steps away from him.Sam came close to him, and shouted to him over the noise: "The Rankins' pigs are fatter than ours, but their hogweed is better than ours—" The fat man refrained from his smugness, and walked away to buy roasted chestnuts in order to hide his panic.

Sam felt the need for a drink.People across the street were coming and going through the swing doors.A golden bar and the decoration above the bar can be vaguely seen in the door.This Avenger crosses the street, intending to get in.Here again, artificial things crowd out the familiar circle.Sam couldn't find the doorknob—reaching out, he found only a rectangle of brass and polished oak, not even a knob as small as a pin. He was at a loss, blushing, sadly walked away from the useless door, and sat down on the stone steps.A nightstick prodded him in the ribs. "Let's find another place to take a walk." The policeman said. "You've been hanging around here too long."

At the next corner, a sharp whistle pierced Sam's ear.He turned quickly, only to see a vicious, scowling man staring at him from behind the steaming machine piled with peanuts.He goes across the street.A huge, mule-free vehicle, with a noise like a bull's roar and a smell like a smoking kerosene lamp, brushed past his knees.A coachman huddled him with his cart and lectured him that polite language was useless in such circumstances.A tram driver slammed on his bell to tell him to get out of the way, and for the first time in his life cooperated with the coachman.A fat lady in an out-of-shape silk waistcoat elbowed him on the back, and a newsboy unhurriedly threw banana peels at him, "I don't want to do that—but anyone who sees me has to get out of the way!"

Carl Harkness finished his day's work, stowed his wagon, and turned a corner from a house.The sharp edges of the house were the architect's whim, fashioned after a safety razor.Three yards away, in the midst of a hurrying crowd, he found the sworn enemy still alive. He stopped abruptly and hesitated for a moment, because he had no weapons at his side and the situation was so sudden.Sam Fauville's piercing mountain dweller's eyes also spotted him in the crowd. There was a sudden jump among the passing people, and a vortex was formed, and Sam's voice sounded: "Yes, Carl! I'm so glad to see you!" At the intersection of Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and Twenty-third Street, the feuds of the Cumberland Hills shook hands.

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