made. Big brother’s still waiting for you with his huge, red fist, behind the barn up in the State of Maine, and they’re still having shotgun marriages at home.
Oh, brother, there are voices you will never hear—ancestral voices prophesying war, my brother, and rare and radiant voices that you know not of, as they have read us into doom. The genteel voices of Oxenford broke once like chimes of weary, unenthusiastic bells across my brain, speaking to me compassionately its judgment on our corrupted lives, gently dealing with the universe, my brother, gently and without labour—gently, brother, gently, it dealt with all of us, with easy condescension and amused disdain.
“I’m afraid, old boy,” the genteel voices of Oxenford remarked, “you’re up against it over thöh…. I really am…. Thöh’s no peace thö faw the individual any longah,”—the genteel voice went on, un-individual brother. “Obviously,” that tolerant voice instructed me, “obviously, thöh can be no cultuah in a country so completely lackin’in tradition as is yoähs…. It’s all so objective—if you see what I main—thöh’s no place left faw the innah life,” it said, oh, outward brother! “… We Europeans have often obsöhved (it’s very curious, you know) that the American is capable of any real feelin’—it seems quite impawsible faw him to distinguish between true emotion an’sentimentality—an’he invayably chooses the lattah!… Curious, isn’t it?—or do you think so, brother? Of co’se, thöh is yoäh beastly dreadful sex-prawblem…. Yoäh women!… Oh, deah, deah!… Perhaps we’d bettah say no moah… but, thöh you ah!”—right in the eye, my brother. “Yoäh country is a matriahky, my deah fellah… it really is, you know.”… if you can follow us, dear brother. “The women have the men in a state of complete subjection… the male is rapidly becomin’moah sexless an’emasculated”—that genteel voice of doom went on—“No!—Decidedly you have quite a prawblem befoah you…. Obviously thöh can be no cultuah while such a condition puhsists…. That is why when my friends say to me,’You ought to see America,… you really ought, you know.’… I say,’No, thanks…. If you don’t mind, I’d rathah not…. I think I’ll stay at home… I’m sorry,’” the compassionate tones of Oxenford went on, “but that’s the way I feel—it really is, you know…. Of co’se, I know you couldn’t undahstand my feelin’—faw aftah all, you ah a Yank—but thöh you ah! Sorry!” it said regretfully, as it spoke its courteous but inexorable judgments of eternal exile,
