Nick’s heart tightened as the trout moved. He felt all the old feeling.
His muscles ached and the day was hot, but Nick felt happy. He had left everything behind, the need for thinking, the need to write, other needs. It was all back of him. From the time he had gotten down off the train and the baggage man had thrown his pack out of the open car door things had been different.
I once said that, after the experiences of the last two years, I could no longer hold to any truth which might oblige me, directly or indirectly, to demand a man’s life. Certain friends whom I respected retorted that I was living in Utopia, that there was no political truth which could not one day reduce us to such an extremity, and that we must therefore either run the risk of this extremity or else simply put up with the world as it is.