Irritation" in blandese. The mountains of the San Gabriel Range — which still

give San Tomas State something of the glamour of a college high on a

plateau of the Andes, on the few days you can see them properly — are hidden

today as usual in the sick yellow fumes which arise from the metropolitan

mess below.

And now, all around George, approaching him, crossing his path from

every direction, is the male and female raw material which is fed daily into

this factory, along the conveyer belts of the freeways, to be processed,

packaged and placed on the market: Negroes, Mexicans, Jews, Japanese,

Chinese, Latins, Slavs, Nordics, the dark heads far predominating over the

blond. Hurrying in pursuit of their schedules, loitering in flirty talk, strolling

in earnest argument, muttering some lesson to themselves alone — all bookburdened,

all harassed.

What do they think they're up to, here? Well, there is the official

answer: preparing themselves for life, which means a job and security in

which to raise children to prepare themselves for life which means a job and

security in which. But, despite all the vocational advisers, the pamphlets

pointing out to them what good money you can earn if you invest in some

solid technical training — pharmacology, let's say, or accountancy, or the

varied opportunities offered by the vast field of electronics — there are still,

incredibly enough, quite a few of them who persist in writing poems, novels,

plays! Goofy from lack of sleep, they scribble in snatched moments between

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classes, part-time employment and their married lives. Their brains are dizzy

with words as they mop out an operating room, sort mail at a post office, fix

baby's bottle, fry hamburgers. And somewhere, in the midst of their

servitude to the must-be, the mad might-be whispers to them to live, know,

experience — what? Marvels! The Season in Hell, the Journey to the End of

the Night, the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, the Clear Light of the Void.... Will

any of them make it? Oh, sure. One, at least. Two or three at most — in all

these searching thousands.

Here, in their midst, George feels a sort of vertigo. Oh God, what will

become of them all? What chance have they? Ought I to yell out to them,

right now, here, that it's hopeless?

But George knows he can't do that. Because, absurdly, inadequately,

in spite of himself, almost, he is a representative of the hope. And the hope

is not false. No. It's just that George is like a man trying to sell a real

diamond for a nickel, on the street. The diamond is protected from all but the

tiniest few, because the great hurrying majority can never stop to dare to

believe that it could conceivably be real.

Outside the cafeteria are announcements of the current student activities: Squaws' Night, Golden Fleece Picnic, Fogcutters' Ball, Civic

Society Meeting and the big game against LPSC. These advertised rituals of

the San Tomas Tribe aren't quite convincing; they are promoted only by a

minority of eager beavers. The rest of these boys and girls do not really think

of themselves as a tribe, although they are willing to pretend that they do on

special occasions. All that they actually have in common is their urgency:

the need to get with it, to finish that assignment which should have been

handed in three days ago. When George eavesdrops on their conversation, it