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"
OUT
OF
THE
FIRE
,
OUT
OF
THE
LITTLE
ROOM
"
Eight
hours
from
Princeton
Amory
sat
down
by
the
Jersey
roadside
and
looked
at
the
frost-bitten
country
.
Nature
as
a
rather
coarse
phenomenon
composed
largely
of
flowers
that
,
when
closely
inspected
,
appeared
moth-eaten
,
and
of
ants
that
endlessly
traversed
blades
of
grass
,
was
always
disillusioning
;
nature
represented
by
skies
and
waters
and
far
horizons
was
more
likable
.
Frost
and
the
promise
of
winter
thrilled
him
now
,
made
him
think
of
a
wild
battle
between
St.
Regis
and
Groton
,
ages
ago
,
seven
years
ago
--
and
of
an
autumn
day
in
France
twelve
months
before
when
he
had
lain
in
tall
grass
,
his
platoon
flattened
down
close
around
him
,
waiting
to
tap
the
shoulders
of
a
Lewis
gunner
.
He
saw
the
two
pictures
together
with
somewhat
the
same
primitive
exaltation
--
two
games
he
had
played
,
differing
in
quality
of
acerbity
,
linked
in
a
way
that
differed
them
from
Rosalind
or
the
subject
of
labyrinths
which
were
,
after
all
,
the
business
of
life
.
"
I
am
selfish
,
"
he
thought
.
"
This
is
not
a
quality
that
will
change
when
I
's
ee
human
suffering
'
or
'
lose
my
parents
'
or
'
help
others
.
'
"
This
selfishness
is
not
only
part
of
me
.
It
is
the
most
living
part
.
"
It
is
by
somehow
transcending
rather
than
by
avoiding
that
selfishness
that
I
can
bring
poise
and
balance
into
my
life
.
"
There
is
no
virtue
of
unselfishness
that
I
can
not
use
.
I
can
make
sacrifices
,
be
charitable
,
give
to
a
friend
,
endure
for
a
friend
,
lay
down
my
life
for
a
friend
--
all
because
these
things
may
be
the
best
possible
expression
of
myself
;
yet
I
have
not
one
drop
of
the
milk
of
human
kindness
.
"
The
problem
of
evil
had
solidified
for
Amory
into
the
problem
of
sex
.
He
was
beginning
to
identify
evil
with
the
strong
phallic
worship
in
Brooke
and
the
early
Wells
.
Inseparably
linked
with
evil
was
beauty
--
beauty
,
still
a
constant
rising
tumult
;
soft
in
Eleanor
's
voice
,
in
an
old
song
at
night
,
rioting
deliriously
through
life
like
superimposed
waterfalls
,
half
rhythm
,
half
darkness
.
Amory
knew
that
every
time
he
had
reached
toward
it
longingly
it
had
leered
out
at
him
with
the
grotesque
face
of
evil
.
Beauty
of
great
art
,
beauty
of
all
joy
,
most
of
all
the
beauty
of
women
.
After
all
,
it
had
too
many
associations
with
license
and
indulgence
.
Weak
things
were
often
beautiful
,
weak
things
were
never
good
.
And
in
this
new
loneness
of
his
that
had
been
selected
for
what
greatness
he
might
achieve
,
beauty
must
be
relative
or
,
itself
a
harmony
,
it
would
make
only
a
discord
.
In
a
sense
this
gradual
renunciation
of
beauty
was
the
second
step
after
his
disillusion
had
been
made
complete
.
He
felt
that
he
was
leaving
behind
him
his
chance
of
being
a
certain
type
of
artist
.
It
seemed
so
much
more
important
to
be
a
certain
sort
of
man
.
