Chapter 10 Chapter 10 Joseph Davies Tearing up Manuscripts

One day in October, when the conversation at the Keppel house was still vividly in the mind of Joseph Davies, G. B. Querrey, Davies's bookseller's agent, came to see him and talk about it. Writing plan for next year.How is the great work that Davis said a year ago going?Is it possible to negotiate a publishing plan?Has the title been finalized yet?Is it to continue to be brilliant?Or the sword and the cross?Or the immortal past?Our great tradition?The great celebration of mankind? G. B. Querrey can't remember exactly.He has not heard from Davis for several months, and it is difficult to find others.

Davis stood in front of the fireplace in the study with a look of disdain. "I haven't seen it for half a year," he said. "I finally decided — not to finish it. Never to write again. That plan was a mistake." "But you've put a lot of effort into that. You've shown me a few passages. I thought that was a wonderful beginning." "It will become more and more exciting in the future. It is like an altar of saints and heroes, like a Catholic church, like a magnificent hall of the Han people. It is the outline of all epics and heroic stories, the outline of all patriotic histories and romantic stories, all since history. The outlines of what men have told themselves about their own heroics. Added embellishments, like a gigantic bubble blown up. And the bubble exploded. These drawers are full of it in piles."

"But..." protested Mr. Querrey. "That's the human sense." "It's a human failure," Davis said. "You're so different! You're not joining the pessimists, are you?" "You never heard of Martians?" "But I think that's just unscientific nonsense." "It's true. Our world is currently at the point where it's coming to an end. We've failed. They're coming into our planet to build a new world after us." Mr. Querrey pondered this statement. It was not his business to judge the sanity of a client.Davis wasn't kidding.He totally believed what he said.

"Maybe you want to write about that?" Querrey asked. “I’m on the losing side,” Davis said, “on the irreversible—the dragging side. With our agreement terminated, I mean, all my books will go out of print.” Mr. Querrey spread his hands helplessly.For the moment he could say nothing against this sudden turn of events. "The new world is coming," Davis said. "I'm inseparable from the old world. I know better now, that's all." Querrey pulled himself together and wanted to say a few more words, although he knew it would be useless to say anything else.He didn't want to argue, he just felt sad.

"Right now," he said, "is the time when people need encouragement and they're confused, where are they going? What's going on in the world? There's confusion everywhere. Who's doing the coronation? What's the military doing? What about after the peace vote? And the Americas. None of that has been resolved. Now you are at it again! Your book could have been a huge success - a heartening success. No doubt it will be hot cake Bestseller. Even H.V. Morton had to be careful with his laurels..." He stood up, shrugging resignedly. "What a pity."

After sending the guests out, Davis returned to the study.He stood blankly on the carpet in the middle of the study for a while, then carefully opened every drawer and took out many folders.He carefully placed these things on the desk and gazed at them.After a while, he opened one folder, read a paragraph; opened another, and read another paragraph.He frowned and pushed the pile of things away, no longer looking at them, but lost in thought. Great books die young. It was a stillbirth—it was a miscarriage.He will never let it be published. "I wrote these things," he mused, "I wrote them. Just a few months ago..."

"I've finished writing." He repeated Querrey aloud, mimicking his demeanor: "It's going to sell like hot cakes. A huge hit, no doubt about it." He discovered a new tendency in his own writing.What made him dismiss success now?he asked himself.What made him go against his own conformity?What split him into two contradictory parts?He is well aware that people desperately want someone to tell them that the world is ok.Never has the market for insurance and optimism looked more promising than it has been in these dire years.Querrey was right that the manuscripts in front of him represented unquestionable success.His brain, which is good at choosing words and making sentences, immediately sparked: "I've finished singing the lullaby. Let them wake up when I..."

"What do you wake up for?" he asked, and then opened up another thread of thought. Suddenly, he felt very small, weak, and alone.It seemed to him that the world, the vast unobstructed contemporary society, was saying to him, "How is it?" He felt he had to put the challenge aside for a moment and not answer.He felt a desire to go to his wife and talk to her. He found his wife waiting to bring him some tea.She smiled silently at him. "Have you met Querrey?" she asked. "I told him my book was off." "I thought you might do that." "I haven't touched it in a long time."

"I know." He sat on the sofa and found that there was a book on the sofa, which she had put down when she saw him coming into the room.He picked up the thin booklet.This is his earliest heroic success, Alexander, or the Young Conqueror. "You rarely read my books, Mary," he said. "I've been reading several of your books lately." "why?" "Because I'm not very good at talking, dear, I want to know you a little bit better." "I've been trying to understand myself lately, too." "I know." She said as she poured him a cup of tea.

He flipped through the book, page by page, "I don't know what you think of it... If you were a cultured person, Mary, instead of a natural innocent, raw, poetic person, you would immediately Made a clichéd criticism of me. And yet you sat there wisely silent. Because it is extremely difficult for you, especially you, to say what you think of me honestly and mildly. This This book confuses you. Now it confuses me...." "Mary, I want to talk to you. I'm very worried—in my heart." "I already know. I know. It's about the Martians. I don't quite understand it, but I can feel it."

"A lot of amazing things are happening in this world - unbelievable things. I can tell you right now. These so-called Martians - you've read those stupid inaccurate articles in the newspapers. You don't know they are far from us How far, and how soon before they touch us. That means something new is being born on this earth, Mary. The strange thing is... I can't tell you everything. I've been floating all my life, While I was floating, the amazing things I was talking about happened in this world. The world quickly turned around and entered a new course. How do I know this? I was deaf and blind before, and now I see clearly It's..." He finds it difficult to speak clearly, however, at the moment. "I want to take a break and think about it." "I know your job has been making you uneasy," she said. "Honey, I get it. I get the feeling you want to take a break. I'd do anything to help you." "Forgive me." He muttered, unable to say anything more. "I must rest, dear," he repeated, "I must think. I must clear my mind and make a new plan." He went to the study, Mary following him.He stared at the pile of works, then walked down the corridor with Mary to the nursery. He carefully looked at his sleeping son for a while, and then his eyes turned back and forth in the clean and bright room. "That's a nice big waste bin," he said suddenly. Mary found his words very strange. "This basket is good for storing extra stuff," she said. "I bought it yesterday." "That's a very nice basket," he agreed, and then seemed to stop thinking about it. He went back to his study and sat among the pile of manuscripts.Mary stayed for a while and went downstairs.When she went upstairs to the study, she found Davis back in the nursery.In the nursery, Davis sat in the nurse's armchair, in front of the large waste basket he had praised.On the chair next to him lay a large pile of manuscripts, which he was tearing apart in stacks of twenty or thirty, and tore them into little pieces.He turned his face toward the crib, as if tearing the papers at the sleeping child. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Rip it up, rip it all up." "Is it 'Humanity's Grand Ceremony'?" "yes" "But there's a lot of pretty good stuff in there." "It doesn't matter, it's worthless compared to future works." He pointed to his son and said: "He will write better. I tear up the past to make way for him. He and his generation—it's their turn." "No one can tear the past away," she said. "You can tear away all the lies about the past, the myths, the stories, the elaborate illusions. Now the real thing is revealed, but this is only the beginning. Let the New Man begin." "New human?" she asked puzzled. As he continued tearing up the manuscript paper, he thought to himself. Should he tell her what he knows about her?Should she be told what their baby is?No!They should know everything about themselves in their own time.They must come to realize in their own way the reasons for their natural estrangement from the old world.Maybe she's on the brink of waking up to it all.But it has to be done step by step. He looked up at her once, but immediately avoided her serious gaze.He picked up a stack of papers and started tearing again. "Each generation," he stammered, "is a new race. Every generation is a new beginning." "But everyone," she said, "is always starting." "No. It took me half my life to free myself, or even begin to free myself—from religious deceit, historical lies, blind conformity to tradition. But even now, I'm still not sure if I'm free These." "But you've already started." "I'm still a little skeptical," he said, "that a fresh start is possible for me and people like me." "Then what other possibilities do you have?" she asked. "Especially you! Just look at what you're doing and saying!" Then she did a wonderful thing for him.She couldn't have done better than this.She walked up to him, bent down, and brought her face close to his. "I wish I could help you...," she said softly. "You see, my dear," she said in a low, rapid voice, putting her hands on Davis' shoulders, "I know you're messed up -- disturbed by one thought after another. I know you're Worried—worried about those Martians in the papers. I understand, but I wish I could understand better. I'm not bright enough to keep up with your ideas. If only I could! I often find that when I know you're It's always too late to think about something. Sometimes I don't like what I say to you, my dear, you're too easily hurt. Your imagination keeps changing like quicksilver. Sometimes I think - you don't seem to belong to this world……" It was a wild idea. "Am I right?" she said. She looked directly into his face. "Joe! Joe, dear! Tell me." Does this joke make him angry?Won't.She stood up and moved away from him, and pointing a finger at him, said: "Joe! Is it by chance that you are the fairy-child in the fable? Are—one of the Martians?" His hand, which was tearing up the manuscript paper, stopped.The stolen child in the fairy tale?One of the Martians? He was stunned by this novel idea, "Me!" he said, "You see me like this?" Miracles happen in an instant. It was as if there was a ray of light illuminating everything, smoothing the turbulent waves in his mind in an instant.All things suddenly became connected end to end, the truth became clear, and it became logical.This final discovery, he realized, completes his great revelation.The turbulent mind finally settled down.He is also a descendant of Mars!He is also one of those invaders and innovators who have squeezed into the life of the earthlings and made it new!He threw the torn papers into the basket and continued tearing them up in the nursery.It was incredible how long it had taken him to realize this! "Of course!" he said softly. His mind had turned all over the world, only to rediscover himself and his home from a new perspective.He stood up abruptly and stared at Mary as if he had only just become aware of her presence.Then, without speaking, he slowly put his arms around Mary, and put his face against hers. "You're new from Mars," he said, "and so am I." She nodded.If he wants to see it that way, so be it. "We are all children who were secretly replaced by aliens," he continued, "so don't be afraid, even if it is an earth-shaking change." "Why be afraid of change?" she asked.She struggled to keep up with his flickering thoughts. "Why be afraid of change? Life is always changing, why should we be afraid of it?" The child lay sideways on the cot, sleeping soundly.Quiet as if not breathing.The chubby little face and closed eyes showed a determined and peaceful expression.A clenched small fist peeked out of the quilt.Is he afraid of change?Scared of the new arrival? Never, he thought, has anything in this world been so calmly determined to have its own way, in its own time, to assert its own right, to think, to do.