Writings and Drawings

  After an instant of thought, or rather Disintegrated Phantasmagoria, Scursey rang the Conners again. He wanted to prevent Louise from going out to the elevator and checking up with the operator. This time, as Scursey had hoped, Harry Conner answered, having told his wife that he would handle this situation. “Hello!” shouted Conner, irritably. “Who is this?” Scursey now abandoned the role of Edith and assumed a sharp, fussy, masculine tone. “Mr. Conner,” he said, crisply, “this is the office. I am afraid we shall have to ask you to remove this colored person from the building. She is blundering into other people’s apartments, using their phones. We cannot have that sort of thing, you know, at the Graydon.” The man’s words and his tone infuriated Conner. “There are a lot of sort of things I’d like to see you not have at the Graydon!” he shouted. “Well, please come down to the lobby and do something about this situation,” said the man, nastily. “You’re damned right I’ll come down!” howled Conner. He banged down the receiver.

  Bert Scursey sat in a chair and gloated over the involved state of affairs which he had created. He decided to go over to the Graydon, which was just up the street from his own apartment, and see what was happening. It promised to have all the confusion which his disorderly mind so deplorably enjoyed. And it did have. He found Conner in a tremendous rage in the lobby, accusing an astonished assistant manager of having insulted him. Several persons in the lobby watched the curious scene. “But, Mr. Conner,” said the assistant manager, a Mr. Bent, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” “If you listen, you’ll find out!” bawled Harry Conner. “In the first place, this colored woman’s coming to the hotel was no idea of mine. I’ve never seen her in my life and I don’t want to see her! I want to go to my grave without seeing her!” He had forgotten what the Mind and Personality books had taught him: never raise your voice in anger, always stick to the point. Naturally, Mr. Bent could only believe that his guest had gone out of his mind. He decided to humor him. “Where is this—ah—colored woman, Mr. Conner?” he asked, warily. He was somewhat pale and was fiddling with a bit of paper. A dabbler in psychology books himself, he knew that colored women are often Sex Degradation symbols, and he wondered if Conner had not fallen out of love with his wife without realizing it. (This theory, I believe, Mr. Bent has clung to ever since, although the Conners are one of the happiest couples in the country.) “I don’t know where she is!” cried Conner. “She’s up on some other floor phoning my wife! You seemed to know all about it! I had nothing to do with it! I opposed it from the start! But I want no insults from you no matter who opposed it!” “Certainly not, certainly not,” said Mr. Bent, backing slightly away. He began to wonder what he was going to do with this maniac.

  At this juncture Scursey, who had been enjoying the scene at a safe distance, approached Conner and took him by the arm. “What’s the matter, old boy?” he asked. “H’lo, Bert,” said Conner, sullenly. And then, his eyes narrowing, he began to examine the look on Scursey’s face. Scursey is not good at dead-panning; he is only good on the phone. There was a guilty grin on his face. “You ——,” said Conner, bitterly, remembering Scursey’s pranks of mimicry, and he turned on his heel, walked to the elevator, and, when Scursey tried to get in too, shoved him back into the lobby. That was the end of the friendship between the Conners and Bert Scursey. It was more than that. It was the end of Harry Conner’s stay at the Graydon. It was, in fact, the end of his stay in New York City. He and Louise live in Oregon now, where Conner accepted a less important position than he had held in New York because the episode of Edith had turned him against Scursey, Mr. Bent, the Graydon, and the whole metropolitan area.

  Anybody can handle the Frank Fulsomes of the world, but is there anything to be done about the Bert Scurseys? Can we so streamline our minds that the antics of the Scurseys roll off them like water off a duck’s back? I don’t think so. I believe the authors of the inspirational books don’t think so, either, but are afraid to attack the subject. I imagine they have been hoping nobody would bring it up. Hardly anybody goes through life without encountering his Bert Scursey and having his life—and his mind—accordingly modified. I have known a dozen Bert Scurseys. I have often wondered what happened to some of their victims. There was, for example, the man who rang up a waggish friend of mine by mistake, having got a wrong number. “Is this the Shu-Rite Shoestore?” the caller asked, querulously. “Shu-Rite Shoestore, good morning!” said my friend, brightly. “Well,” said the other, “I just called up to say that the shoes I bought there a week ago are shoddy. They’re made, by God, of cardboard. I’m going to bring them in and show you. I want satisfaction!” “And you shall have it!” said my friend. “Our shoes are, as you say, shoddy. There have been many complaints, many complaints. Our shoes, I am afraid, simply go to pieces on the foot. We shall, of course, refund your money.” I know another man who was always being roused out of bed by people calling a certain railroad which had a similar phone number. “When can I get a train to Buffalo?” a sour-voiced woman demanded one morning about seven o’clock. “Not till two A.M. tomorrow, Madam,” said this man. “But that’s ridiculous!” cried the woman. “I know,” said the man, “and we realize that. Hence we include, in the regular fare, a taxi which will call for you in plenty of time to make the train. Where do you live?” The lady, slightly mollified, told him an address in the Sixties. “We’ll have a cab there at one-thirty, Madam,” he said. “The driver will handle your baggage.” “Now I can count on that?” she said. “Certainly, Madam,” he told her. “One-thirty, sharp.”

  Just what changes were brought about in that woman’s character by that call, I don’t know. But the thing might have altered the color and direction of her life, the pattern of her mind, the whole fabric of her nature. Thus we see that a person might build up a streamlined mind, a mind awakened to a new life, a new discipline, only to have the whole works shot to pieces by so minor and unpredictable a thing as a wrong telephone number. On the other hand, the undisciplined mind would never have the fortitude to consider a trip to Buffalo at two in the morning, nor would it have the determination to seek redress from a shoestore which had sold it a faulty pair of shoes. Hence the undisciplined mind runs far less chance of having its purposes thwarted, its plans distorted, its whole scheme and system wrenched out of line. The undisciplined mind, in short, is far better adapted to the confused world in which we live today than the streamlined mind. This is, I am afraid, no place for the streamlined mind.

  3. The Case for the Daydreamer

  ALL THE BOOKS in my extensive library on training the mind agree that realism, as against fantasy, reverie, daydreaming, and woolgathering, is a highly important thing. “Be a realist,” says Dr. James L. Mursell, whose “Streamline Your Mind” I have already discussed. “Take a definite step to turn a dream into a reality,” says Mrs. Dorothea Brande, the “Wake-Up-and-Live!” woman. They allow you a certain amount of reverie and daydreaming (no woolgathering), but only when it is purposeful, only when it is going to lead to realistic action and concrete achievement. In this insistence on reality I do not see as much profit as these Shapers of Success do. I have had a great deal of satisfaction and benefit out of daydreaming which never got me anywhere in their definition of getting somewhere. I am reminded, as an example, of an incident which occurred this last summer.

  I had been travelling about the country attending dog shows. I was writing a series of pieces on these shows. Not being in the habit of carrying press cards, letters of introduction, or even, in some cases, the key to my car or the tickets to a show which I am on my way to attend, I had nothing by which to identify myself. I simply paid my way in, but at a certain dog show I determined to see if the officials in charge would give me a pass. I approached a large, heavy-set man who looked somewhat like Victor McLaglen. His name was Bustard. Mr. Bustard. “You’ll have to see Mr. Bustard,” a ticket-taker had told me. This Mr. Bustard was apparently very busy trying to find bench space for old Miss Emily Van Winkle’s Pomeranians
, which she had entered at the last minute, and attending to a number of other matters. He glanced at me, saw that he outweighed me some sixty pounds, and decided to make short shrift of whatever it was I wanted. I explained I was writing an article about the show and would like a pass to get in. “Why, that’s impossible!” he cried. “That’s ridiculous! If I gave you a pass, I’d have to give a pass to everyone who came up and asked me for a pass!” I was pretty much overwhelmed. I couldn’t, as is usual in these cases, think of anything to say except “I see.” Mr. Bustard delivered a brief, snarling lecture on the subject of people who expect to get into dog shows free, unless they are showing dogs, and ended with “Are you showing dogs?” I tried to think of something sharp and well-turned. “No, I’m not showing any dogs,” I said, coldly. Mr. Bustard abruptly turned his back on me and walked away.

  Child Making Flat Statements about a Gentleman’s Personal Appearance

  As soon as Mr. Bustard disappeared, I began to think of things I should have said. I thought of a couple of sharp cracks on his name, the least pointed of which was Buzzard. Finely edged comebacks leaped to mind. Instead of going into the dog show—or following Mr. Bustard—I wandered up and down the streets of the town, improving on my retorts. I fancied a much more successful encounter with Mr. Bustard. In this fancied encounter, I, in fact, enraged Mr. Bustard. He lunged at me, whereupon, side-stepping agilely, I led with my left and floored him with a beautiful right to the jaw. “Try that one!” I cried aloud. “Mercy!” murmured an old lady who was passing me at the moment. I began to walk more rapidly; my heart took a definite lift. Some people, in my dream, were bending over Bustard, who was out cold. “Better take him home and let the other bustards pick his bones,” I said. When I got back to the dog show, I was in high fettle.

  After several months I still feel, when I think of Mr. Bustard, that I got the better of him. In a triumphant daydream, it seems to me, there is felicity and not defeat. You can’t just take a humiliation and dismiss it from your mind, for it will crop up in your dreams, but neither can you safely carry a dream into reality in the case of an insensitive man like Mr. Bustard who outweighs you by sixty pounds. The thing to do is to visualize a triumph over the humiliator so vividly and insistently that it becomes, in effect, an actuality. I went on with my daydreams about Mr. Bustard. All that day at the dog show I played tricks on him in my imagination, I outgeneralled him, I made him look silly, I had him on the run. I would imagine myself sitting in a living room. It was late at night. Outside it was raining heavily. The doorbell rang. I went to the door and opened it, and a man was standing there. “I wonder if you would let me use your phone?” he asked. “My car has broken down.” It was, of all people, Mr. Bustard. You can imagine my jibes, my sarcasm, my repartee, my shutting the door in his face at the end. After a whole afternoon of this kind of thing, I saw Mr. Bustard on my way out of the show. I actually felt a little sorry about the tossing around I had given him. I gave him an enigmatic, triumphant smile which must have worried him a great deal. He must have wondered what I had been up to, what superior of his I had seen, what I had done to get back at him—who, after all, I was.

  Now, let us figure Dr. Mursell in my place. Let us suppose that Dr. Mursell went up to Mr. Bustard and asked him for a pass to the dog show on the ground that he could streamline the dog’s intuition. I fancy that Mr. Bustard also outweighs Dr. Mursell by sixty pounds and is in better fighting trim; we men who write treatises on the mind are not likely to be in as good shape as men who run dog shows. Dr. Mursell, then, is rebuffed, as I was. If he tries to get back at Mr. Bustard right there and then, he will find himself saying “I see” or “Well, I didn’t know” or, at best, “I just asked you.” Even the streamlined mind runs into this Blockage, as the psychologists call it. Dr. Mursell, like myself, will go away and think up better things to say, but, being a realist dedicated to carrying a dream into actuality, he will perforce have to come back and tackle Mr. Bustard again. If Mr. Bustard’s patience gives out, or if he is truly stung by some crack of the Doctor’s he is likely to begin shoving, or snap his fingers, or say “ ’Raus!,” or even tweak the Doctor’s nose. Dr. Mursell, in that case, would get into no end of trouble. Realists are always getting into trouble. They miss the sweet, easy victories of the daydreamer.

  I do not pretend that the daydream cannot be carried too far. If at this late date, for instance, I should get myself up to look as much like Mr. Bustard as possible and then, gazing into the bathroom mirror, snarl “Bustard, you dog!,” that would be carrying the daydream too far. One should never run the risk of identifying oneself with the object of one’s scorn. I have no idea what complexes and neuroses might lie that way. The mental experts could tell you—or, if they couldn’t, they would anyway.

  Now let us turn briefly to the indomitable Mrs. Brande, eight of whose precious words of advice have, the ads for her book tell us, changed the lives of 860,000 people, or maybe it is 86,000,000—Simon & Schuster published her book. (These words are “act as if it were impossible to fail,” in case your life hasn’t been changed.) Discussing realistic action as against the daydream, she takes up the case of a person, any person, who dreams about going to Italy but is getting nowhere. The procedure she suggests for such a person is threefold: (1) read a current newspaper in Italian, buy some histories, phrase books, and a small grammar; (2) put aside a small coin each day; (3) do something in your spare time to make money—“if it is nothing more than to sit with children while their parents are at parties.” (I have a quick picture of the parents reeling from party to party, but that is beside the point.)

  I can see the newspaper and the books intensifying the dream, but I can’t somehow see them getting anybody to Italy. As for putting a small coin aside each day, everybody who has tried it knows that it does not work out. At the end of three weeks you usually have $2.35 in the pig bank or the cooky jar, a dollar and a half of which you have to use for something besides Italy, such as a C.O.D. package. At that rate, all that you would have in the bank or the jar at the end of six years would be about $87.45. Within the next six years Italy will probably be at war, and even if you were well enough to travel after all that time, you couldn’t get into the country. The disappointment of a dream nursed for six years, with a reality in view that did not eventuate, would be enough to embitter a person for life. As for this business of sitting with children while their parents are at parties, anybody who has done it knows that no trip to anywhere, even Utopia, would be worth it. Very few people can sit with children, especially children other than their own, more than an hour and a half without having their dispositions and even their characters badly mauled about. In fifteen minutes the average child whose parents are at a party can make enough flat statements of fact about one’s personal appearance and ask enough pointed questions about one’s private life to send one away feeling that there is little, if any, use in going on with anything at all, let alone a trip to Italy.

  The long and hard mechanics of reality which these inspirationalists suggest are, it seems to me, far less satisfactory than the soft routine of a dream. The dreamer builds up for himself no such towering and uncertain structure of hope; he has no depleted cooky jar to shake his faith in himself. It is significant that the line “Oh, to be in England now that April’s there,” which is a definite dream line, is better known than any line the poet wrote about actually being in England. (I guess that will give the inspirationalists something to think about.) You can sit up with children if you want to, you can put a dime a day in an empty coffee tin, you can read the Fascist viewpoint in an Italian newspaper, but when it comes to a choice between the dream and the reality of present-day Italy, I personally shall sit in a corner by the fire and read “The Ring and the Book.” And in the end it will probably be me who sends you a postcard from Italy, which you can put between the pages of the small grammar or the phrase book.

  4. A Dozen Disciplines

  MRS. DOROTHEA BRANDE, whose theory of how to get
to Italy I discussed in the preceding pages, has a chapter in her “Wake Up and Live!” which suggests twelve specific disciplines. The purpose of these disciplines, she says, is to make our minds keener and more flexible. I’ll take them up in order and show why it is no use for Mrs. Brande to try to sharpen and limber up my mind, if these disciplines are all she has to offer. I quote them as they were quoted in a Simon & Schuster advertisement for the book, because the advertisement puts them more succinctly than Mrs. Brande does herself.