Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald онлайн

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“You see you has to do somethin’. You haven’t any God worth remarkin’ on. So you pass from life in the names of your holy principles, and hope to meet in Westminster.”

“We’re not mystics, O’Flaherty,” muttered Clay, “but we’ve got a firm grip on God and reality.”

“Mystics, my eye, beggin’ your pardon, Captain,” cried the Irishman. “A mystic ain’t no race, it’s a saint. You got the most airy way o’ thinkin’ in the wurruld an yit you talk about plain faith as if it was cloud gazin’. There was a lecture last week behind Vimy Y.M.C.A., an’ I stuck my head in the door; ‘Tan-gi-ble,’ the fellow was sayin’, ‘we must be Tan-gi-ble in our religion, we must be practical’ an’ he starts off on Christian brotherhood an’ honorable death—so I stuck me head out again. An’ you got lots a good men dyin’ for that every day—tryin’ to be tan-gi-ble, dyin’ because their father’s a duke or because he ain’t. But that ain’t what I got to think of. An’ right here let’s light a pipe before it gets dark enough for the damn burgomasters to see the match and practice on it.”