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Amory
laughed
.
"
What
are
you
,
"
asked
the
big
man
,
"
one
of
these
parlor
Bolsheviks
,
one
of
these
idealists
?
I
must
say
I
fail
to
see
the
difference
.
The
idealists
loaf
around
and
write
the
stuff
that
stirs
up
the
poor
immigrants
.
"
"
Well
,
"
said
Amory
,
"
if
being
an
idealist
is
both
safe
and
lucrative
,
I
might
try
it
.
"
"
What
's
your
difficulty
?
Lost
your
job
?
"
"
Not
exactly
,
but
--
well
,
call
it
that
.
"
"
What
was
it
?
"
"
Writing
copy
for
an
advertising
agency
.
"
"
Lots
of
money
in
advertising
.
"
Amory
smiled
discreetly
.
"
Oh
,
I
'll
admit
there
's
money
in
it
eventually
.
Talent
does
n't
starve
any
more
.
Even
art
gets
enough
to
eat
these
days
.
Artists
draw
your
magazine
covers
,
write
your
advertisements
,
hash
out
rag-time
for
your
theatres
.
By
the
great
commercializing
of
printing
you
've
found
a
harmless
,
polite
occupation
for
every
genius
who
might
have
carved
his
own
niche
.
But
beware
the
artist
who
's
an
intellectual
also
.
The
artist
who
does
n't
fit
--
the
Rousseau
,
the
Tolstoi
,
the
Samuel
Butler
,
the
Amory
Blaine
--
"
