Word: vag
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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...Vag was striding up and down in front of the fireplace, glowing pipe in hand. His somewhat forlorn frame was suitably encased in baggy tweeds. There was a brandy-snifter on the mantelpiece with a thin film of amber curving along the bottom. Vag decided that he cut a pretty smooth figure in front of the fire, especially when the tiny yellow flames spurted and gave his face a ruddy gleam easily mistaken, he thought, for the flush of ambition of a young man about to graduate from Harvard. "But what do you want to be?" came the quiet voice...
...something, you know," said the ice-cold voice from the shadows. Its funereal tones brightened, then, a trific. "Food, shelter, and clothing," it chanted derisively. Vag cringed. He knew that in three months Commencement would take place; it was going to seem like a great armored door shutting behind him when he left college finally. Have to get a job doing something. Well, then, he'd be free to salvage civilization. Young man; no responsibilities. Political work, newspaper campaigns, social work with Vag as the driving force behind it all. Food, shelter, clothing? A sandwich, his garret, his leather-elbowed...
...pipe, damn it, was almost a symbol; he knocked out its ashes vehemently. Vag turned toward the easy chair and was ready to parrot back that you've got to be something, you know; the wife and kids; food, shelter, clothing; life in a groove. But the voice had changed for the better. It was a kindly voice Vag heard. "By the way, son, if they all turn you down, you might even come in with me down at the office. Start as a runner, of course at fifteen per." Even though he had heard that speech before, Vag didn...
...name still throbbing in his brain, Vag closed the book. He snapped on the radio and dropped into his arm chair. Through closed eyes he saw again the steaming convention hall. Suddenly a penetrating voice at his elbow interrupted, "You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this--." Vag leaped to his feet and then sheepishly noticed the radio dial: WRUL. His watch said 7:30 and it was Tuesday, March 5. Of course, this was the Harvard Radio Workshop's program on the Westward Movement. Vag, chuckling, tuned in a little more carefully and settled down...
...last gradually building crescendo, a final thrilling chord, and the four musicians were bowing their appreciation of the audience's very audible approval. At first Vag felt cheated--the music should never have stopped; he should have been allowed to continue musing in this delicious manner. Finally, he forced himself to leave his chair and wander outside--the night air was crisp, the snow was an iridescent mass of white, and a haunting theme kept running through his sleepy mind. Vag went into hibernation to wait for the next Stradivarius concert on March first...