It is strange to think of the Annas, the Vronskys, the Pierres,
all the Tolstoyan lot
wiped out.
And the Alyoshas and Dmitris and Myshkins and
Stavrogins, the Dostoevsky lot
all wiped out.
And the Tchekov wimbly-wambly wet-legs all wiped out.
Gone! Dead, or wandering in exile with their feathers
plucked,
anyhow, gone from what they were, entirely.
Will the Proustian lot go next?
And then our English imitation intelligentsia?
Is it the Quos vult perdere Deus business?
Anyhow the Tolstoyan lot simply asked for extinction:
Eat me up, dear peasant! - So the peasant ate him.
And the Dostoevsky lot wallowed in the thought:
Let me sin my way to Jesus! So they sinned themselves off
the face of the earth.
And the Tchekov lot: I’m too weak and lovable to live! So
they went.
Now the Proustian lot: Dear darling death, let me wriggle
my way towards you
like the worm I am! So he wriggled and got there.
Finally our little lot: I don’t want to die, but by Jingo if I do!
— Well, it won’t matter so very much, either!