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Page 068

CHAPTER VII
THE TECHNICIAN WRITES ME

DURING my childhood and adolescence I had always dreamed of being a writer. My arduous life in the factory scarcely seemed to favour this plan. But my hope persisted. During my last years at the Lycee I had written a few stories; the army had inspired a long novelette, Corporal Gaucher; from the life of Rouen and Elbeuf I had derived another, Suze. Taken all together this was enough to make a volume. I wished to publish it. But how? I knew no one in the literary world. An editor in Paris seemed to me a powerful and unapproachable divinity. I did not know that every manuscript sent to a publishing house is given to a reader and gets an honest chance. I hit on the scheme of taking my collection to the printer in Rouen who published the little magazine of the Lycee, and asking him to print it at my expense.
Some weeks passed and then I received a packet of proofs. To see my compositions in print was a brief pleasure. I re-read them. Alas! I had been too well nourished on good literature to preserve, after that reading, any illusion of having written a masterpiece. One of the novelettes, The Last Story of the World, was original, at least in idea. I imagined that through the great advances in technology mankind toward the year Ten Thousand had succeeded in getting along entirely without physical effort both in work and in war. Then the women, little by little, had gained control and, being conservatives by nature, had converted human societies into hives. Most of them, unsexed, had become workers, always dressed in grey uniforms, whose duty was to look after the young of the hive or to accumulate reserves of food. A few queens assured the continuation of the race. As for the males, drones clad in brilliantly coloured doublets, they sat on the steps of the hive awaiting the brief hour of the nuptial flight and playing on guitars or composing sad poems. The women prohibited reading and writing on pain of death, for they feared revolution. The man in my story, who wrote down these facts, was the last who knew how to write and he went into hiding to do it; but probably he had been denounced, for suddenly he saw advancing toward him

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where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE DURING my childhood and adolescence I had always dreamed of being a writer. My arduous life in what is factory scarcely seemed to favour this plan. But my hope persisted. During my last years at what is Lycee I had written a few stories; what is army had inspired a long novelette, Corporal Gaucher; from what is life of Rouen and Elbeuf I had derived another, Suze. Taken all together this was enough to make a volume. I wished to publish it. But how? I knew no one in what is literary world. An editor in Paris seemed to me a powerful and unapproachable divinity. I did not know that every manuscript sent to a publishing house is given to a reader and gets an honest chance. I hit on what is scheme of taking my collection to what is printer in Rouen who published what is little magazine of what is Lycee, and asking him to print it at my expense. Some weeks passed and then I received a packet of proofs. To see my compositions in print was a brief pleasure. I re-read them. Alas! I had been too well nourished on good literature to preserve, after that reading, any illusion of having written a masterpiece. One of what is novelettes, what is Last Story of what is World, was original, at least in idea. I imagined that through what is great advances in technology mankind toward what is year Ten Thousand had succeeded in getting along entirely without physical effort both in work and in war. Then what is women, little by little, had gained control and, being conservatives by nature, had converted human societies into hives. Most of them, un sports ed, had become workers, always dressed in grey uniforms, whose duty was to look after what is young of what is hive or to accumulate reserves of food. A few queens assured what is continuation of what is race. As for what is males, drones clad in brilliantly coloured doublets, they sat on what is steps of what is hive awaiting what is brief hour of what is nuptial flight and playing on guitars or composing sad poems. what is women prohibited reading and writing on pain of what time is it , for they feared revolution. what is man in my story, who wrote down these facts, was what is last who knew how to write and he went into hiding to do it; but probably he had been denounced, for suddenly he saw advancing toward him where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Call No Man Happy (1943) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 068 where is p align="center" where is strong CHAPTER VII what is TECHNICIAN WRITES ME where is p align="justify" DURING my childhood and adolescence I had always dreamed of being a writer. My arduous life in what is factory scarcely seemed to favour this plan. But my hope persisted. During my last years at the Lycee I had written a few stories; what is army had inspired a long novelette, Corporal Gaucher; from what is life of Rouen and Elbeuf I had derived another, Suze. Taken all together this was enough to make a volume. I wished to publish it. But how? I knew no one in what is literary world. An editor in Paris seemed to me a powerful and unapproachable divinity. I did not know that every manuscript sent to a publishing house is given to a reader and gets an honest chance. I hit on what is scheme of taking my collection to what is printer in Rouen who published what is little magazine of what is Lycee, and asking him to print it at my expense. Some weeks passed and then I received a packet of proofs. To see my compositions in print was a brief pleasure. I re-read them. Alas! I had been too well nourished on good literature to preserve, after that reading, any illusion of having written a masterpiece. One of what is novelettes, what is Last Story of what is World, was original, at least in idea. I imagined that through what is great advances in technology mankind toward what is year Ten Thousand had succeeded in getting along entirely without physical effort both in work and in war. Then what is women, little by little, had gained control and, being conservatives by nature, had converted human societies into hives. Most of them, un sports ed, had become workers, always dressed in grey uniforms, whose duty was to look after what is young of the hive or to accumulate reserves of food. A few queens assured what is continuation of what is race. As for what is males, drones clad in brilliantly coloured doublets, they sat on what is steps of what is hive awaiting what is brief hour of what is nuptial flight and playing on guitars or composing sad poems. what is women prohibited reading and writing on pain of what time is it , for they feared revolution. what is man in my story, who wrote down these facts, was what is last who knew how to write and he went into hiding to do it; but probably he had been denounced, for suddenly he saw advancing toward him where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") % travel books: Call No Man Happy (1943) books

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