and hope that fortune deigns to pluck your sorry arse and smelly feet into our mindless new elite.” [79] 9/12 Art spends the morning deftly shaving, giving his hair a spiky cut. The hotel shampoo been saving he’s smells pleasantly of coconut. He trades a portion of his loot to buy a torn and stolen suit, employs a nimble-witted ruse to win a pair of matching shoes and finds a pair of glassless glasses. think I might have understated “I the ways that are fortune’s dice weighted,” Murray advises as he passes. But in no mood to listen, Arthur’s washing his hands until they glisten. [80] 10/12 He minds his posture as he strolls professionally to the Quay. Although he feels treading coals, he’s well-composed. he’s “Please pardon me,” he offers at a paper stand. wonder, could you use a hand? “I looking for an I’m occupation.” is a one-man “This operation,” the newsie says. “I’m sorry, mate.” He gets a similar response from kiosks, bottle shops, Alphonse the baker, and an overweight dry cleaner: “Sorry, I’m retiring.” not “We’re fine.” “There’s nothing.” “We’re hiring.” [81] 11/12 But Art delights in each rejection. In each apologetic spurning he feels a growing resurrection. His tide is obviously turning: it frequently occur doesn’t that people deign to call him “Sir” or even speak directly to him, preferring to look past or through him. But now they meet his supplication with proletarian remorse. A member of the labour force, treated with a veneration he’s always managed to avoid. he’s
and hope that fortune deigns to pluck your sorry arse and smelly feet into our mindless new elite.” [79] 9/12 Art spends the morning deftly shaving, giving his hair a spiky cut. The hotel shampoo he’s been saving smells pleasantly of coconut. He trades a portion of his loot to buy a torn and stolen suit, employs a nimble-witted ruse to win a pair of matching shoes and finds a pair of glassless glasses. “I think I might have understated the ways that fortune’s dice are weighted,” Murray advises as he passes. But Arthur’s in no mood to listen, washing his hands until they glisten. [80] 10/12 He minds his posture as he strolls professionally to the Quay. Although he feels he’s treading coals, he’s well-composed. “Please pardon me,” he offers at a paper stand. “I wonder, could you use a hand? I’m looking for an occupation.” “This is a one-man operation,” the newsie says. “I’m sorry, mate.” He gets a similar response from kiosks, bottle shops, Alphonse the baker, and an overweight dry cleaner: “Sorry, I’m retiring.” “We’re fine.” “There’s nothing.” “We’re not hiring.” [81] 11/12 But Art delights in each rejection. In each apologetic spurning he feels a growing resurrection. His tide is obviously turning: it doesn’t frequently occur that people deign to call him “Sir” or even speak directly to him, preferring to look past or through him. But now they meet his supplication with proletarian remorse. A member of the labour force, he’s treated with a veneration he’s always managed to avoid.