Further Foolishness

Ch. 3 - Foreign Fiction in Imported Instalments

SPECIAL EDITORIAL NOTE, OR, FIT OF CONVULSIONS INTO

WHICH AN EDITOR FALLS IN INTRODUCING THIS SORT OF

STORY TO HIS READERS. We need offer no apology to

our readers in presenting to them a Russian novel.

There is no doubt that the future in literature lies

with Russia. The names of Tolstoi, of Turgan-something,

and Dostoi-what-is-it are household words in America.

We may say with certainty that Serge the Superman is

the most distinctly Russian thing produced in years.

The Russian view of life is melancholy and fatalistic.

It is dark with the gloom of the great forests of the

Volga, and saddened with the infinite silence of the

Siberian plain. Hence the Russian speech, like the

Russian thought, is direct, terse and almost crude in

its elemental power. All this appears in Serge the

Superman. It is the directest, tersest, crudest thing

we have ever seen. We showed the manuscript to a friend

of ours, a critic, a man who has a greater Command of

the language of criticism than perhaps any two men in

New York to-day. He said at once, "This is big. It is

a big thing, done by a big man, a man with big ideas,

writing at his very biggest. The whole thing has a

bigness about it that is--" and here he paused and

thought a moment and added--"big." After this he sat

back in his chair and said, "big, big, big," till we

left him. We next showed the story to an English critic

and he said without hesitation, or with very little,

"This is really not half bad." Last of all we read

the story ourselves and we rose after its perusal--itself

not an easy thing to do--and said, "Wonderful but

terrible." All through our (free) lunch that day we

shuddered.

CHAPTER I

As a child. Serge lived with his father--Ivan Ivanovitch

--and his mother--Katrina Katerinavitch. In the house,

too were Nitska, the serving maid. Itch, the serving man,

and Yump, the cook, his wife.

The house stood on the borders of a Russian town. It was

in the heart of Russia. All about it was the great plain

with the river running between low banks and over it the

dull sky.

Across the plain ran the post road, naked and bare. In

the distance one could see a moujik driving a three-horse

tarantula, or perhaps Swill, the swine-herd, herding the

swine. Far away the road dipped over the horizon and was

lost.

"Where does it go to?" asked Serge. But no one could tell

him.

In the winter there came the great snows and the river

was frozen and Serge could walk on it.

On such days Yob, the postman, would come to the door,

stamping his feet with the cold as he gave the letters

to Itch.

"It is a cold day," Yob would say.

"It is God's will," said Itch. Then he would fetch a

glass of Kwas steaming hot from the great stove, built

of wood, that stood in the kitchen.

"Drink, little brother," he would say to Yob, and Yob

would answer, "Little Uncle, I drink your health," and

he would go down the road again, stamping his feet with

the cold.

Then later the spring would come and all the plain was

bright with flowers and Serge could pick them. Then the

rain came and Serge could catch it in a cup. Then the

summer came and the great heat and the storms, and Serge

could watch the lightning.

"What is lightning for?" he would ask of Yump, the cook,

as she stood kneading the _mush_, or dough, to make

_slab_, or pancake, for the morrow. Yump shook her _knob_,

or head, with a look of perplexity on her big _mugg_, or

face.

"It is God's will," she said.

Thus Serge grew up a thoughtful child.

At times he would say to his mother, "Matrinska (little

mother), why is the sky blue?" And she couldn't tell him.

Or at times he would say to his father, "Boob (Russian

for father), what is three times six?" But his father

didn't know.

Each year Serge grew.

Life began to perplex the boy. He couldn't understand

it. No one could tell him anything.

Sometimes he would talk with Itch, the serving man.

"Itch," he asked, "what is morality?" But Itch didn't

know. In his simple life he had never heard of it.

At times people came to the house--Snip, the schoolmaster,

who could read and write, and Cinch, the harness maker,

who made harness.

Once there came Popoff, the inspector of police, in his

blue coat with fur on it. He stood in front of the fire

writing down the names of all the people in the house.

And when he came to Itch, Serge noticed how Itch trembled

and cowered before Popoff, cringing as he brought a

three-legged stool and saying, "Sit near the fire, little

father; it is cold." Popoff laughed and said, "Cold as

Siberia, is it not, little brother?" Then he said, "Bare

me your arm to the elbow, and let me see if our mark is

on it still." And Itch raised his sleeve to the elbow

and Serge saw that there was a mark upon it burnt deep

and black.

"I thought so," said Popoff, and he laughed. But Yump,

the cook, beat the fire with a stick so that the sparks

flew into Popoff's face. "You are too near the fire,

little inspector," she said. "It burns."

All that evening Itch sat in the corner of the kitchen,

and Serge saw that there were tears on his face.

"Why does he cry?" asked Serge.

"He has been in Siberia," said Yump as she poured water

into the great iron pot to make soup for the week after

the next.

Serge grew more thoughtful each year.

All sorts of things, occurrences of daily life, set him

thinking. One day he saw some peasants drowning a tax

collector in the river. It made a deep impression on him.

He couldn't understand it. There seemed something wrong

about it.

"Why did they drown him?" he asked of Yump, the cook.

"He was collecting taxes," said Yump, and she threw a

handful of cups into the cupboard.

Then one day there was great excitement in the town, and

men in uniform went to and fro and all the people stood

at the doors talking.

"What has happened?" asked Serge.

"It is Popoff, inspector of police," answered Itch. "They

have found him beside the river."

"Is he dead?" questioned Serge.

Itch pointed reverently to the ground--"He is there!" he

said.

All that day Serge asked questions. But no one would tell

him anything. "Popoff is dead," they said. "They have

found him beside the river with his ribs driven in on

his heart."

"Why did they kill him?" asked Serge.

But no one would say.

So after this Serge was more perplexed than ever.

Every one noticed how thoughtful Serge was.

"He is a wise boy," they said. "Some day he will be a

learned man. He will read and write."

"Defend us!" exclaimed Itch. "It is a dangerous thing."

One day Liddoff, the priest, came to the house with a

great roll of paper in his hand.

"What is it?" asked Serge.

"It is the alphabet," said Liddoff.

"Give it to me," said Serge with eagerness.

"Not all of it," said Liddoff gently. "Here is part of

it," and he tore off a piece and gave it to the boy.

"Defend us!" said Yump, the cook. "It is not a wise

thing," and she shook her head as she put a new lump of

clay in the wooden stove to make it burn more brightly.

Then everybody knew that Serge was learning the alphabet,

and that when he had learned it he was to go to Moscow,

to the Teknik, and learn what else there was.

So the days passed and the months. Presently Ivan Ivanovitch

said, "Now he is ready," and he took down a bag of rubles

that was concealed on a shelf beside the wooden stove in

the kitchen and counted them out after the Russian fashion,

"Ten, ten, and yet ten, and still ten, and ten," till he

could count no further.

"Protect us!" said Yump. "Now he is rich!" and she poured

oil and fat mixed with sand into the bread and beat it

with a stick.

"He must get ready," they said. "He must buy clothes.

Soon he will go to Moscow to the Teknik and become a wise

man."

Now it so happened that there came one day to the door

a drosky, or one-horse carriage, and in it was a man and

beside him a girl. The man stopped to ask the way from

Itch, who pointed down the post road over the plain. But

his hand trembled and his knees shook as he showed the

way. For the eyes of the man who asked the way were dark

with hate and cruel with power. And he wore a uniform

and there was brass upon his cap. But Serge looked only

at the girl. And there was no hate in her eyes, but only

a great burning, and a look that went far beyond the

plain, Serge knew not where. And as Serge looked, the

girl turned her face and their eyes met, and he knew that

he would never forget her. And he saw in her face that

she would never forget him. For that is love.

"Who is that?" he asked, as he went back again with Itch

into the house.

"It is Kwartz, chief of police," said Itch, and his knees

still trembled as he spoke.

"Where is he taking her?" said Serge.

"To Moscow, to the prison," answered Itch. "There they

will hang her and she will die."

"Who is she?" asked Serge. "What has she done?" and as

he spoke he could still see the girl's face, and the look

upon it, and a great fire went sweeping through his veins.

"She is Olga Ileyitch," answered Itch, "She made the bomb

that killed Popoff, the inspector, and now they will hang

her and she will die."

"Defend us!" murmured Yump, as she heaped more clay upon

the stove.

CHAPTER II

Serge went to Moscow. He entered the Teknik. He became

a student. He learned geography from Stoj, the professor,

astrography from Fudj, the assistant, together with

giliodesy, orgastrophy and other native Russian studies.

All day he worked. His industry was unflagging. His

instructors were enthusiastic. "If he goes on like this,"

they said, "he will some day know something."

"It is marvellous," said one. "If he continues thus, he

will be a professor."

"He is too young," said Stoj, shaking his head. "He has

too much hair."

"He sees too well," said Fudj. "Let him wait till his

eyes are weaker."

But all day as Serge worked he thought. And his thoughts

were of Olga Ileyitch, the girl that he had seen with

Kwartz, inspector of police. He wondered why she had

killed Popoff, the inspector. He wondered if she was

dead. There seemed no justice in it.

One day he questioned his professor.

"Is the law just?" he said. "Is it right to kill?"

But Stoj shook his head, and would not answer.

"Let us go on with our orgastrophy," he said. And he

trembled so that the chalk shook in his hand.

So Serge questioned no further, but he thought more deeply

still. All the way from the Teknik to the house where he

lodged he was thinking. As he climbed the stair to his

attic room he was still thinking.

The house in which Serge lived was the house of Madame

Vasselitch. It was a tall dark house in a sombre street.

There were no trees upon the street and no children played

there. And opposite to the house of Madame Vasselitch

was a building of stone, with windows barred, that was

always silent. In it were no lights, and no one went in

or out.

"What is it?" Serge asked.

"It is the house of the dead," answered Madame Vasselitch,

and she shook her head and would say no more.

The husband of Madame Vasselitch was dead. No one spoke

of him. In the house were only students, Most of them

were wild fellows, as students are. At night they would

sit about the table in the great room drinking Kwas made

from sawdust fermented in syrup, or golgol, the Russian

absinth, made by dipping a gooseberry in a bucket of soda

water. Then they would play cards, laying matches on the

table and betting, "Ten, ten, and yet ten," till all the

matches were gone. Then they would say, "There are no

more matches; let us dance," and they would dance upon

the floor, till Madame Vasselitch would come to the room,

a candle in her hand, and say, "Little brothers, it is

ten o'clock. Go to bed." Then they went to bed. They were

wild fellows, as all students are.

But there were two students in the house of Madame

Vasselitch who were not wild. They were brothers. They

lived in a long room in the basement. It was so low that

it was below the street.

The brothers were pale, with long hair. They had deep-set

eyes. They had but little money. Madame Vasselitch gave

them food. "Eat, little sons," she would say. "You must

not die."

The brothers worked all day. They were real students.

One brother was Halfoff. He was taller than the other

and stronger. The other brother was Kwitoff. He was not

so tall as Halfoff and not so strong.

One day Serge went to the room of the brothers. The

brothers were at work. Halfoff sat at a table. There was

a book in front of him.

"What is it?" asked Serge.

"It is solid geometry," said Halfoff, and there was a

gleam in his eyes.

"Why do you study it?" said Serge.

"To free Russia," said Halfoff.

"And what book have you?" said Serge to Kwitoff.

"Hamblin Smith's _Elementary Trigonometry_," said Kwitoff,

and he quivered like a leaf.

"What does it teach?" asked Serge.

"Freedom!" said Kwitoff.

The two brothers looked at one another.

"Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff.

"Not yet," said Kwitoff. "Let him learn first. Later he

shall know."

After that Serge often came to the room of the two brothers.

The two brothers gave him books. "Read them," they said.

"What are they?" asked Serge.

"They are in English," said Kwitoff. "They are forbidden

books. They are not allowed in Russia. But in them is

truth and freedom."

"Give me one," said Serge.

"Take this," said Kwitoff. "Carry it under your cloak.

Let no one see it."

"What is it?" asked Serge, trembling in spite of himself.

"It is Caldwell's _Pragmatism_," said the brothers.

"Is it forbidden?" asked Serge.

The brothers looked at him.

"It is death to read it," they said.

After that Serge came each day and got books from Halfoff

and Kwitoff. At night he read them. They fired his brain.

All of them were forbidden books. No one in Russia might

read them. Serge read Hamblin Smith's _Algebra_. He read

it all through from cover to cover feverishly. He read

Murray's _Calculus_. It set his brain on fire. "Can this

be true?" he asked.

The books opened a new world to Serge.

The brothers often watched him as he read.

"Shall we tell him everything?" said Halfoff.

"Not yet." said Kwitoff. "He is not ready."

One night Serge went to the room of the two brothers.

They were not working at their books. Littered about the

room were blacksmith's tools and wires, and pieces of

metal lying on the floor. There was a crucible and

underneath it a blue fire that burned fiercely. Beside

it the brothers worked. Serge could see their faces in

the light of the flame.

"Shall we tell him now?" said Kwitoff. The other brother

nodded.

"Tell him now," he said.

"Little brother," said Kwitoff, and he rose from beside

the flame and stood erect, for he was tall, "will you

give your life?"

"What for?" asked Serge.

The brothers shook their heads.

"We cannot tell you that," they said. "That would be too

much. Will you join us?"

"In what?" asked Serge.

"We must not say," said the brothers. "We can only ask

are you willing to help our enterprise with all your

power and with your life if need be?"

"What is your enterprise?" asked Serge.

"We must not divulge it," they said. "Only this: will

you give your life to save another life, to save Russia?"

Serge paused. He thought of Olga Ileyitch. Only to save

her life would he have given his.

"I cannot," he answered.

"Good night, little brother," said Kwitoff gently, and

he turned back to his work.

Thus the months passed.

Serge studied without ceasing. "If there is truth," he

thought, "I shall find it." All the time he Thought of

Olga Ileyitch. His face grew pale. "Justice, Justice,"

he thought, "what is justice and truth?"

CHAPTER III

Now when Serge had been six months in the house of Madame

Vasselitch, Ivan Ivanovitch, his father, sent Itch, the

serving man, and Yump, the cook, his wife, to Moscow to

see how Serge fared. And Ivan first counted out rubles

into a bag, "ten, and ten and still ten," till Itch said,

"It is enough. I will carry that."

Then they made ready to go. Itch took a duck from the

pond and put a fish in his pocket, together with a fragrant

cheese and a bundle of sweet garlic. And Yump took oil

and dough and mixed it with tar and beat it with an iron

bar so as to shape it into a pudding.

So they went forth on foot, walking till they came to

Moscow.

"It is a large place," said Itch, and he looked about

him at the lights and the people.

"Defend us," said Yump. "It is no place for a woman."

"Fear nothing," said Itch, looking at her.

So they went on, looking for the house of Madame Vasselitch.

"How bright the lights are!" said Itch, and he stood

still and looked about him. Then he pointed at a burleski,

or theatre. "Let us go in there and rest," he said.

"No," said Yump, "let us hurry on."

"You are tired," said Itch. "Give me the pudding and

hurry forward, so that you may sleep. I will come later,

bringing the pudding and the fish."

"I am not tired," said Yump.

So they came at last to the house of Madame Vasselitch.

And when they saw Serge they said, "How tall he is and

how well grown!" But they thought, "He is pale. Ivan

Ivanoviteh must know."

And Itch said, "Here are the rubles sent by Ivan Ivanovitch.

Count them, little son, and see that they are right."

"How many should there be?" said Serge.

"I know not," said Itch. "You must count them and see."

Then Yump said, "Here is a pudding, little son, and a

fish, and a duck and a cheese and garlic."

So that night Itch and Yump stayed in the house of Madame

Vasselitch.

"You are tired," said Itch. "You must sleep."

"I am not tired," said Yump. "It is only that my head

aches and my face burns from the wind and the sun."

"I will go forth," said Itch, "and find a fisski, or

drug-store, and get something for your face."

"Stay where you are," said Yump. And Itch stayed.

Meantime Serge had gone upstairs with the fish and the

duck and the cheese and the pudding. As he went up he

thought. "It is selfish to eat alone. I will give part

of the fish to the others." And when he got a little

further up the steps he thought, "I will give them all

of the fish." And when he got higher still he thought,

"They shall have everything."

Then he opened the door and came into the big room where

the students were playing with matches at the big table

and drinking golgol out of cups. "Here is food, brothers,"

he said. "Take it. I need none."

The students took the food and they cried, "Rah, Rah,"

and beat the fish against the table. But the pudding they

would not take. "We have no axe," they said. "Keep it."

Then they poured out golgol for Serge and said, "Drink it."

But Serge would not.

"I must work," he said, and all the students laughed.

"He wants to work!" they cried. "Rah, Rah."

But Serge went up to his room and lighted his taper, made

of string dipped in fat, and set himself to study. "I

must work," he repeated.

So Serge sat at his books. It got later and the house

grew still. The noise of the students below ceased and

then everything was quiet.

Serge sat working through the night. Then presently it

grew morning and the dark changed to twilight and Serge

could see from his window the great building with the

barred windows across the street standing out in the grey

mist of the morning.

Serge had often studied thus through the night and when

it was morning he would say, "It is morning," and would

go down and help Madame Vasselitch unbar the iron shutters

and unchain the door, and remove the bolts from the window

casement.

But on this morning as Serge looked from his window his

eyes saw a figure behind the barred window opposite to

him. It was the figure of a girl, and she was kneeling

on the floor and she was in prayer, for Serge could see

that her hands were before her face. And as he looked

all his blood ran warm to his head, and his limbs trembled

even though he could not see the girl's face. Then the

girl rose from her knees and turned her face towards the

bars, and Serge knew that it was Olga Ileyitch and that

she had seen and known him.

Then he came down the stairs and Madame Vasselitch was

there undoing the shutters and removing the nails from

the window casing.

"What have you seen, little son?" she asked, and her

voice was gentle, for the face of Serge was pale and his

eyes were wide.

But Serge did not answer the question.

"What is that house?" he said. "The great building with

the bars that you call the house of the dead?"

"Shall I tell you, little son," said Madame Vasselitch,

and she looked at him, still thinking. "Yes," she said,

"he shall know.

"It is the prison of the condemned, and from there they

go forth only to die. Listen, little son," she went on,

and she gripped Serge by the wrist till he could feel

the bones of her fingers against his flesh. "There lay

my husband, Vangorod Vasselitch, waiting for his death.

Months long he was there behind the bars and no one might

see him or know when he was to die. I took this tall

house that I might at least be near him till the end.

But to those who lie there waiting for their death it is

allowed once and once only that they may look out upon

the world. And this is allowed to them the day before

they die. So I took this house and waited, and each day

I looked forth at dawn across the street and he was not

there. Then at last he came. I saw him at the window and

his face was pale and set and I could see the marks of

the iron on his wrists as he held them to the bars. But

I could see that his spirit was unbroken. There was no

power in them to break that. Then he saw me at the window,

and thus across the narrow street we said good-bye. It

was only a moment. 'Sonia Vasselitch,' he said, 'do not

forget,' and he was gone. I have not forgotten. I have

lived on here in this dark house, and I have not forgotten.

My sons--yes, little brother, my sons, I say--have not

forgotten. Now tell me, Sergius Ivanovitch, what you have

seen."

"I have seen the woman that I love," said Serge, "kneeling

behind the bars in prayer. I have seen Olga Ileyitch."

"Her name," said Madame Vasselitch, and there were no

tears in her eyes and her voice was calm, "her name is

Olga Vasselitch. She is my daughter, and to-morrow she

is to die."

CHAPTER IV

Madame Vasselitch took Serge by the hand.

"Come," she said, "you shall speak to my sons," and she

led him down the stairs towards the room of Halfoff and

Kwitoff.

"They are my sons," she said. "Olga is their sister. They

are working to save her."

Then she opened the door. Halfoff and Kwitoff were working

as Serge had seen them before, beside the crucible with

the blue flame on their faces.

They had not slept.

Madame Vasselitch spoke.

"He has seen Olga," she said. "It is to-day."

"We are too late," said Halfoff, and he groaned.

"Courage, brother," said Kwitoff. "She will not die till

sunrise. It is twilight now. We have still an hour. Let

us to work."

Serge looked at the brothers.

"Tell me," he said. "I do not understand."

Halfoff turned a moment from his work and looked at Serge.

"Brother," he said, "will you give your life?"

"Is it for Olga?" asked Serge.

"It is for her."

"I give it gladly," said Serge.

"Listen then," said Halfoff. "Our sister is condemned

for the killing of Popoff, inspector of police. She is

in the prison of the condemned, the house of the dead,

across the street. Her cell is there beside us. There is

only a wall between. Look--"

Halfoff as he spoke threw aside a curtain that hung across

the end of the room. Serge looked into blackness. It was

a tunnel.

"It leads to the wall of her cell," said Halfoff. "We

are close against the wall but we cannot shatter it. We

are working to make a bomb. No bomb that we can make is

hard enough. We can only try once. If it fails the noise

would ruin us. There is no second chance. We try our

bombs in the crucible. They crumble. They have no strength.

We are ignorant. We are only learning. We studied it in

the books, the forbidden books. It took a month to learn

to set the wires to fire the bomb. The tunnel was there.

We did not have to dig it. It was for my father, Vangorod

Vasselitch. He would not let them use it. He tapped a

message through the wall, 'Keep it for a greater need.'

Now it is his daughter that is there."

Halfoff paused. He was panting and his chest heaved.

There was perspiration on his face and his black hair

was wet.

"Courage, little brother," said Kwitoff. "She shall not

die."

"Listen," went on Halfoff. "The bomb is made. It is there

beside the crucible. It has power in it to shatter the

prison. But the wires are wrong. They do not work. There

is no current in them. Something is wrong. We cannot

explode the bomb."

"Courage, courage," said Kwitoff, and his hands were busy

among the wires before him. "I am working still."

Serge looked at the brothers.

"Is that the bomb?" he said, pointing at a great ball of

metal that lay beside the crucible.

"It is," said Halfoff.

"And the little fuse that is in the side of it fires it?

And the current from the wires lights the fuse?"

"Yes," said Halfoff.

The two brothers looked at Serge, for there was a meaning

in his voice and a strange look upon his face.

"If the bomb is placed against the wall and if the fuse

is lighted it would explode."

"Yes," said Halfoff despairingly, "but how? The fuse is

instantaneous. Without the wires we cannot light it. It

would be death."

Serge took the bomb in his hand. His face was pale.

"Let it be so!" he said. "I will give my life for hers."

He lifted the bomb in his hand. "I will go through the

tunnel and hold the bomb against the wall and fire it,"

he said. "Halfoff, light me the candle in the flame. Be

ready when the wall falls."

"No, no," said Halfoff, grasping Serge by the arm. "You

must not die!"

"My brother," said Kwitoff quietly, "let it be as he

says. It is for Russia!"

But as Halfoff turned to light the candle in the flame

there came a great knocking at the door above and the

sound of many voices in the street.

All paused.

Madame Vasselitch laid her hand upon her lips.

Then there came the sound as of grounded muskets on the

pavement of the street and a sharp word of command.

"Soldiers!" said Madame Vasselitch.

Kwitoff turned to his brother.

"This is the end," he said. "Explode the bomb here and

let us die together."

Suddenly Madame Vasselitch gave a cry.

"It is Olga's voice!" she said.

She ran to the door and opened it, and a glad voice was

heard crying.

"It is I, Olga, and I am free!"

"Free," exclaimed the brothers.

All hastened up the stairs.

Olga was standing before them in the hall and beside her

were the officers of the police, and in the street were

the soldiers. The students from above had crowded down

the stairs and with them were Itch, the serving man, and

Yump, the cook.

"I am free," cried Olga, "liberated by the bounty of the

Czar--Russia has declared war to fight for the freedom

of the world and all the political prisoners are free."

"Rah, rah!" cried the students. "War, war, war!"

"She is set free," said the officer who stood beside

Olga. "The charge of killing Popoff is withdrawn. No one

will be punished for it now."

"I never killed him," said Olga. "I swear it," and she

raised her hand.

"You never killed him!" exclaimed Serge with joy in his

heart. "You did not kill Popoff? But who did?"

"Defend us," said Yump, the cook. "Since there is to be

no punishment for it, I killed him myself."

"You!" they cried.

"It is so," said Yump. "I killed him beside the river.

It was to defend my honour."

"It was to defend her honour," cried the brothers. "She

has done well."

They clasped her hand.

"You destroyed him with a bomb?" they said.

"No," said Yump, "I sat down on him."

"Rah, rah, rah," said the students.

There was silence for a moment. Then Kwitoff spoke.

"Friends," he said, "the new day is coming. The dawn is

breaking. The moon is rising. The stars are setting. It

is the birth of freedom. See! we need it not!"--and as

he spoke he grasped in his hands the bomb with its still

unlighted fuse--"Russia is free. We are all brothers

now. Let us cast it at our enemies. Forward! To the

frontier! Live the Czar."

In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.