the discussion is ended, portis declared from the depths of his armchair, as the embers burned low in the fireplace.
mortinson, who as usual had not been paying attention, looked up.
eh, what discussion was that?
the discussion, portis replied acidly, as to whether everything in the world, other than physical measurements like height and weight, is subject to interpretation and personal taste.
indeed, yes, quite so, mortinson hastily agreed.
peherington, who had been quiet all evening, suddenly spoke up.
look here, i think i know something that is not subject to interpretation.
go ahead, portis replied wearily, speak your piece.
whether a chap is a bore. i mean, if nobody finds a fellow interesting, is he not by definition a bore?
go on.
you used as an example, portis, if a person paints a picture, and everybody derides it, he can still insist that it meets some standard of beauty and perfection that others are too dull to see, or that it will be acclaimed as a masterpiece in some future time, and you have no way to absolutely prove him wrong.
the same with a poem, or a novel, or an architectural design, or whatever. but if his fellows find him boring ,what recourse does he have? can he say , that in some abstract fashion, that they really find him interesting?
his words or ideas, portis rumbled, might find favor at some future date.
not if they are not recorded! not if he is just sitting in front of a fireplace in a club, gassing away.
i say, collinsworth interjected, i think this is quite enough of this. let me tell you about a damned queer thing that happened to me as i was walking over here this evening….
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