title:Capital ver.1.0e
by Taro Kimura


"Marx's thinking had a practical-or political-objec-
tive. He was not only a philosopher; he was a historian,
a sociologist, and an economist."
"And he was a forerunner in all these areas?"
"Certainly no other philosopher had greater signifi-
cance for practical politics. On the other hand, we must
be wary of identifying everything that calls itself Marxism
with Marx's own thinking. It is said of Marx that he only
became a Marxist in the mid-1840s, but ever after that
he could at times feel it necessary to assert that he was
not a Marxist."
"Was Jesus a Christian?"
"That, too, of course, is debatable."


Said Marx: "The state cripples itself by turning a citizen into
a criminal. "And very touchingly he explained how in every vio-
lator of the law the sate must see a warm-blooded human being
as well, and a soldier who defends the Fatherland, and a member
of the community, and a father of a family, "whose existence is
sacred," and -most importantly- a citizen. But our jurists have
no time to read Marx, particularly such unthought-out parts as
these. Let Marx read own instructions if he feels like it.


There the intelligentsia itself was in large
part not of Russian nationality or at least was of non-Slavic
racial character. The thin intellectual upper stratum of the
Russia of that time could at any time be removed, due to the
total lack of connecting intermediary ingredients with the mass
of the great people. And the intellectual and moral level of
these last was horribly low.
Once it was possible in Russia to incite the uneducated
hordes of the great masses, unable to read or write, against the
thin intellectual upper crust that stood in no relation or con-
nection to them, the fate of the country was decided, the revolu-
tion had succeeded; the Russian illiterate had thus become the
defenseless slave of his Jewish dictators, who for their part, it
must be admitted, were clever enough to let this dictatorship
ride on the phrase of 'people's dictatorship'.


"There we come to the other thing I
told you; and that, let me tell you, was not a joke. I told you that
heresies and false doctrines had become common and conversa-
tional; that everybody was used to them; that nobody really
noticed them. Did you think I meant Communism when I said
that? Why, it was just the other way. You were all as nervous as
cats about Communism is a heresy; but it isn't a heresy that you
people take for granted. It is Capitalism you take for granted; or
rather the vices of Capitalism disguised as a dead Darwinism. Do
you recall what you were all saying in the Common Room, about
life being only a scramble, and nature demanding the survival of
the fittest, and how it doesn't matter whether the poor are paid
justly or not? Why that is the heresy that you have grown
accustomed to, my friends; and it's every bit as much a heresy as
Communism. That's the anti-Christian morality or immorality
that you take quite naturally. And that's the immorality that has
made a man murderer today."


"I won't have you talking like that," cried the girl, who was in
a curious glow. "You've only talked like that since you became a
horrid what's-his-name. You know what I mean. What do you
call a man who wants to embrace the chimney-sweep?"
"A saint," said Father Brown.
"I think," said Sir Leoplold, with a supercilious smile, "that
Ruby means a Socialist."
"A radical does not mean a man who lives on radishes," re-
marked Crook, with some impatience; "and a Conservative does
not mean a man who preserves jam. Neither, I assure you, does a
Socialist mean a man who desires a social evening with the
chimney-sweep. A socialist means a man who wants all the chim-
neys swept and all the chimney-sweeps paid for it."
"But who won't allow you," put in the priest in a low voice,
"to own your own soot."


"Have you read Das Kapital?" she asked.
"Yes. Not the whole thing, of course. Pretty
much like everyone else."
"And did you understand it?"
"I understood some parts, others not. To read
Das Kapital means taking on a full-blown system of
thought. But I'd guess I have a fairly good picture of
what Marxism is about as a whole."
"Do you imagine that most freshmen who've
never tackled a book like Das Kapital can make
much sense out of it?"
"Pretty much out of the question," I ventured.
"You know, when I entered university I joined a
folk music club. I wanted to sing songs. Well, such a
line-up of sneaks you have never seen. I shudder
just to think of it now. As soon as I joined, the first
thing they had me do was read Marx. Like lessons,
from page such-and-such to page such-and-such.
Folk songs were a touchstone to society and
radicalism and...I got this whole long speech. What
could I do? I went home and read Marx. But I
couldn't make head or tail of it. Even less than with
the conditional. I gave up after three pages. At the
next week's meeting I told them I hadn't been able
to make much sense of what I'd read. And they all
ganged up on me, like I was an idiot, saying I had
no social consciousness or critical awareness and I
don't know what. No joke! Just because I said I
wasn't able to understand what was written. What
a load of crap!"
"Hmm," I offered.
"Then came the discussions, which were even
worse. Everybody putting on such pompous expres-
sions and using big words. Asking me difficult ques-
sions because I didn't understand. 'What does
imperialist exploitation mean?' What bearing does it
have on East Indian society?' Or 'Given the aim of
crushing the industrial-academic complex, is it
wrong to go out and get a company job after
university?' Nobody would explain a thing to me.
Far from it, they got furious. Can you believe it?"
"Sure I believe it."
"Anyway, they railed on and on. What did I
mean not knowing about these things? What was
going on in that head of mine? Well, that was it. I'm
simple, I admit it. I'm common. Not an exploited
member of the common people, just the common
salt-of-the-earth type. What's this 'social revolu-
tion,' using words common people can't even
understand? What's 'revolutionary' about that? I
mean I want to make the world a better place to live
in. If people are really being exploited, I want it to
stop. All the more reason not to grill me about my
'commitment,' wouldn't you think?"
"So I'd imagine."
"Well, that's what I thought. Sneaky louts, the
lot of them, flaunting those big empty words, trying
to impress this freshman girl. All those creeps were
really thinking about was feeling her up under her
skirt! Then, when they reach their senior year, they
all cut their hair short and get jobs with Mitsubishi
or TBS or IBM, take themselves a pretty thing of a
wife who's read Marx, have kids and give them in-
tellectual names. Who's smashing what system?
Don't make me laugh! The other freshmen were
just as bad, all pretending they understood what's
what, looking oh-so-smart about it. And they say
that I'm just stupid, so if I don't understand, I
should just go yes-yes to everything. You wanna
hear something that got me even madder?"
"Fire away."
"One day, when we were to attend a political
meeting, we girls were told to bring twenty rice
balls each for a late-night snack. No joke, no way.
Utterly sexist. But I wasn't one to make waves, so I
fixed my twenty, complete with seaweed and salted
plums, too. And what thanks did I get? They com-
plained that Kobayashi's rice balls only had salted
plums inside and there was no side dish, either. The
other girls had all put in salmon or cod roe, with a
rolled omelet on the side. I was so dumbfounded I
couldn't speak. All this talk of revolution and here
they were fussing over their midnight meal. Talk
about nit-picking! Seaweed and salted plums
weren't good enough for them. What about those
starving children in India?"
I laughed. "So what became of the club?"
"I was so disgusted I quit in June," said Midori.
"Still, almost everyone at school's trying to pull
something over. They've all got their antennas out,
twitching for fear someone's going to find out they
don't know something or other. That's why they
read the same books, toss around the same words,
listen to the same John Coltrane records, are
moved in the same way by the same Pasolini
movies. Is that revolution?"


In the living-room, in a corner of the davenport, Ted set-
tled down to his Home Study; plain geometry, Cicero, and the
agonizing metaphors of Comus.
"I don't see why they give us this old-fashioned junk by
Milton and Shakespeare and Wordsworth and all these has-
beens," he protested. "Oh, I guess I could stand it to see a
show by Shakespeare, if they had swell scenery and put on a
lot of dog, but to sit down in cold blood and read 'em-
These teachers-how do they get that way?"
Mrs. Babbitt, darning socks, speculated, "Yes, I wonder why.
Of course I don't want to fly in the face of the professors and
everybody, but I do think there's things in Shakespeare-not
that I read him much, but when I was young the girls used to
show me passages that weren't, really, they weren't at all nice."
Babbitt looked up irritably from the comic strips in the
Evening Advocate. They composed his favorite literature and
art, these illustrated chronicles in which Mr. Mutt hit Mr.
Jeff with a rotten egg, and Mother corrected Father's vulgar-
isms by means of a rolling-pin. With the solemn face of a
devotee, breathing heavily through his open mouth, he plodded
nightly through every picture, and during the rite he detested
interruptions. Furthermore, he felt that on the subject of
Shakespeare he wasn't really an authority. Neither the Ad-
vocate-Times, the Evening Advocate, nor the Bulletin of the
Zenith Chamber of Commerce had ever had an editorial on
the matter, and until one of them had spoken he found it hard
to form an original opinion. But even at risk of floundering
in strange bogs, he could not keep out of an open controversy.
"I'll tell you why you have to study Shakespeare and those.
It's because they're required for college entrance, and that's
all there is to it ! Personally, I don't see myself why they
stuck 'em into an up-to-date high-school system like we have
in this state. Be a good deal better if you took Business Eng-
lish, and learned how to write an ad, or letters that would pull.
But there it is, and there's not talk, argument, or discussion
about it ! Trouble with you, Ted, is you always want to do
something deferent ! If you're going to law-school-and you
are !-I never had a chance to, but I'll see that you do-
why, you'll want to lay in all the English and Latin you
can get."
"Oh punk. I don't see what's the use of law-school-or
even finishing high school. I don't want to go to college 'spe-
cially. Honest, there's lot of fellows that have graduated from
colleges that don't begin to make as much money as fellows
that went to work early. Old Shimmy Peters, that teaches
Latin in the High, he's a what-is-it from Columbia and he sits
up all night reading a lot of greasy books and he's always
spieling about the 'value of languages,' and the poor soak
doesn't make but eighteen hundred a year, and no traveling
salesman would think of working for that. I know what I'd
like to do. I'd like to be an aviator, or own a corking big
garage, or else-a fellow was telling me about it yesterday-
I'd like to be one of these fellows that the Standard Oil Com-
pany sends out to China, and you live in a compound and
don't have to do any work, and you get to see the world and
pagodas and the ocean and everything ! And then I could
take up correspondence-courses. That's the real stuff ! You
don't have to recite to some frosty-faced old dame that's trying
to show off to the principal, and you can study any subject
you want to. Just listen to these ! I clipped out the ads of
some swell courses."
He snatched from the back of his geometry half a hundred
advertisements of those home-study courses which the energy
and foresight of American commerce have contributed to the
science of education. The first displayed the portrait of a
young man with a pure brow, an iron jaw, silk socks, and hair
like patent leather. Standing with one hand in his trousers-
pocket and the other extended with chiding forefinger, he was
bewitching an audience of men with gray beards, paunches,
bald heads, and every other sign of wisdom and prosperity.
Above the picture was an inspiring educational symbol-no
antiquated lamp or torch or owl of Minerva, but a row of dol-
lar signs. The text ran:
$ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $


HEINRICH VON KREYL: And how do you earn your
money? Do you get commissions from the service?
KARL VON KREYL: I get strange secret assignments from
the people up there. (Points to various corners where bugs
might be concealed.) Take this, for instance. (Takes down a
thick brown envelope from one of the shelves.) Have a phone call.
After all, I've always stayed within the law, even in Rio
for it's stated in the rules: "In exceptional cases help may
be given to foreign nationals." (Heinrich has meanwhile
opened the envelope and taken out a Merceds star. He looks in
astonishment at his son, who prevents him from speaking by
raising a finger to his lips.) Wait before you say anything.
(Dials a number, then after a short pause) Karl here. Listen,
I'm in an embarrassing position: my father wants to
know how I earn my money....No, I can guarantee his
discretion-and I haven't even told Katharina.... You
think no one will believe it anyway-and I don't have
any proof.... Okay, thanks. (Replaces the receiver and ad-
dresses Heinrich.) I steal Mercedes stars. This will be the
last for a while-I have to restrain myself for a time, This
one was particularly hard to come by. It's from a car
belonging to a certain Dr. Wehrli, a big fish in the Swiss
banking world. I'm assuming that the family tradition of
descretion will be maintained in this case too.
HEINRICH VON KREYL, holding the Mercedes star and shaking
his head: You're not putting me on, are you? You do that
for the service?
KARL VON KREYL, in a matter-of-fact tone: I've been doing
it for some years. At home I get five hundred marks per
star, plus expenses; abroad I get fifteen hundred plus ex-
penses, because abroad I have to work at my own risk,
so to speak, whereas here I can be given cover if neces-
sary. It would be difficult for them to help me if I were
caught abroad. I even have to sign a receipt for the fee
and the expenses-all proper and aboveboard.
HENRICH VON KREYL, still astonished and incredulous: Is it a
test of courage or something? A kind of training that
requires a test of courage?


There you have the bourgeois idiosy in all its beatitude !


I might have taken the interested side of the question, and, instead
of subjecting my pen to copying, entirely devoted it to works which,
from the elevation to which I had soared, and at which I found
myself capable of continuing, might have enabled me to live in the
midst of abundance, nay, even of opulence, had I been the least
disposed to join the maneuvers of an author to the care of
publishing a good book. But I felt that writing for bread would soon
have extinguished my genius, and destroyed my talents, which were less
in my pen than in my heart, and solely proceeded from an elevated
and noble manner of thinking, by which alone they could be cherished
and preserved. Nothing vigorous or great can come from a pen totally
venal. Necessity, nay, even avarice, perhaps, would have made me write
rather rapidly than well. If the desire of success had not led me into
cabals, it might have made me endeavor to publish fewer true and
useful works than those which might be pleasing to the multitude;
and instead of a distinguished author, which I might possibly
become, I should have been nothing more than a scribbler. No: I have
always felt that the profession of letters was illustrious in
proportion as it was less a trade. It is too difficult to think
nobly when we think for a livelihood. To be able to dare even to speak
great truths, an author must be independent of success. I gave my
books to the public with a certainty of having written for the general
good of mankind, without giving myself the least concern about what
was to follow. If the work was thrown aside, so much the worse for
such as did not choose to profit by it. Their approbation was not
necessary to enable me to live, my profession was sufficient to
maintain me had not my works had a sale, for which reason alone they
all sold.


Before the invention of the art of printing, a scholar
and a beggar seem to have been terms very nearly synonymous.
The different governors of the universities before that time appear
to have often granted licenses to their scholars to beg.


Exercise in begging
We put on dirty, torn clothes, take off our shoes, dirty our
faces and hands. We go out into the street. We stop and
When a foreign officer comes by, we raise our right
hands to salute him and hold out our left hands. Usually
the officer walks on without seeing us, without looking at
In the end, an officer stops. He says something in a
language we don't understand. He asks us questions. We
don't answer. We stand motionless, one arm raised, the
other held out. Then he fumbles in his pockets, places a
coin and a bit of chocolate in our dirty hands and goes off,
shaking his head.
We go on waiting.
A woman passes by. We hold out our hands. She says:
'Poor kids. I've nothing to give you.'
She strokes our hair.
We say:
'Thank you.'
Another woman gives us two apples, another some
A woman passes by. We hold out our hands. She stops
and says:
'Aren't you ashamed to beg? Come with me, I've a few
easy little jobs for you. Cutting wood, for example, and
cleaning up the terrace. You're big enough and strong
enough for that. Afterwards, if you work well, I'll give you
some bread and soup.'
We answer:
'We don't want to work for you, madam. We don't
want to eat your soup or bread. We aren't hungry.'
She asks:
'Why are you begging, then?'
'To find out what effect it has and to observe people's
She walks on, shouting:
'Dirty little hooligans! And cheeky with it!'
On our way home, we throw away the apples, biscuits
and coins in the tall grass at the roadside.
It is impossible to throw away the stroking on our hair.


I am perfectly willing to concede to
Mr. Godwin that there is much more
labour in the world than is really ne-
cessary; and that, if the lower classes
of society could agree among themselves
never to work more than six or seven
hours in the day, the commodities es-
sential to human happiness might still
be produced in as great abundance as at
present. But it is almost impossible to
conceive that such an agreement could
be adhered to. From the principle of
population, some would necessarily be
more in want than others. Those that
had large families, would naturally be
desirous of exchanging two hours more
of their labour for an ampler quantity
of subsistence. How are they to be
prevented from making this exchange?
It would be a violation of the first and
most sacred property that a man pos-
sesses, to attempt, by positive institutions,
to interfere with his command over his
own labour.


I want to have millions in order to make the Stock
Exchange tremble. I want to ruin the Stock Ex-
change. I am life and life is love of people for one
another. The Stock Exchange is death. It robs poor
people who bring it their last money in the hope of
realizing their ambitions. I like the poor and will
therefore play on the Stock Exchange in order to ruin
the brokers. The brokers play with enormous sums.
Enormous sums are death and therefore not from
God. I want to make money on the Stock Exchange
and will therefore go to Zurich.

People forget that money is not more
important than work. Nowadays everybody notices
that work is dearer than money because there are
not enough working people. I am a working man.
Everybody ought to work, but all work is not equal.
Good work is needed. I work also writing these books.
I do not write for my own pleasure-there can be no
pleasure when a man spends all his free time on writ-
ing. One has to write a great deal to be able to un-
derstand what writing means. It is a difficult occu-
pation-one gets tired of sitting, having the legs
cramped, the arm stiff. It spoils the eyes and one
does not get enough air; the room gets stuffy. From
such a life a man dies sooner. People who write at
night spoil their eyes and have to wear glasses, the
hypocrites use monocles. I notice that from writing
a long time my eyes get bloodshot. People who write
a great deal are martyrs. I like martyrs for the sake
of God. Many say one should write for money, for
without money one cannot live. With tears in my
eyes I see that these people are like Christ crucified.
I weep when I hear such things, as I have experi-
enced it in another manner by dancing for money.
I nearly died because I was so exhausted. I was like
a horse, which is being forced with a whip to drag a
heavy load. Carriers whipped their horses to death,
because they did not understand that the animals had
no more strength left. The coachman drove the horse
downhill, using his whip. The coachman drove the horse
downhill, using his whip. The horse fell-I saw it
and my soul was crying. I wanted to sob aloud but
thought that people would take me for a weakling
and therefore wept inwardly. The horse was lying on
its side and cried from pain. I felt it. The veterinary
surgeon shot this horse with a revolver out of pity.


I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the
woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution
or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up
something and got something else. Or you worked for
something. You paid some way for everything that was
any good. I paid my way into enough things that I
liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by
learning about them, or by experience, or by taking
chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to
get your money's worth and knowing when you had it.
You could get your money's worth. The world was a
good place to buy in. It will seem just as silly as all
the other fine philosophies I've had.


Many on the team sought to resolve the contradictions of work
and family by selling some of their Microsoft shares and flushing
their lives with cash. The money-what it bought and what it stood
for-was a balm for the workaday aches. Some bought security.
Lou Perazzoli eschewed a new house and even a new car for him-
self. Instead he socked away enough to pay for college expenses for
his two daughters and an early retirement for him and his wife.
Others went on shopping sprees. In the year leading to the July
deadline, one code writer bought a mansion a half hour's drive
from work, a vacation home in Vail and four new cars: Saab and
Porsche convertibles, a Voyager van and a Honda Accord. He paid
cash for the cars-nearly $150,000 in all. "For me spending money is
a release," he said. But before long he wanted another-a Lotus Es-
prit, a sports car even pricier than his Porsche. He installed a tennis
court on his estate but bemoaned his lack of playing time. Another
highly successful code writer lived alone in a sumptuous home on
Lake Washington but slept in his office so often that he called him-
self a "homeless person."
Some questioned the value of the prosperity wrought by their tie
to Microsoft. "The company provides really well for us," said Leigh
Manheim. Yet she felt uneasy: "It's like the old saying: Be careful
what you wish for. That's how I feel sometimes.


"Daddy ... what do you do?"
What did he do?
"Do? What do you mean, sweetheart?"
"Well, MacKenzie's daddy makes books, and he has eighty
people working for him."
"That's what MacKenzie told you?"
"Oh ho! Eighty people!" said Sherman's father, in the voice
he used for small children. "My, my, my!"
Sherman could imagine what the Lion thought of Garland
Reed. Garland had inherited his father's printing business
and for ten years had done nothing with it but keep it alive.
The "books" he "made" were printing jobs given him by the
actual publishers, and the products were as likely to be
manuals, club rosters, corporate contracts, and annual reports
as anything even remotely literary. As for the eighty people
- eighty ink-stained wretches was more like it, typesetters,
pressman, and so forth. At the height of his career the Lion
had had two hundred Wall Street lawyers under his whip, most
of them Ivy League.
"But what do you do?" asked Campbell, now growing
impatient. She wanted to get back to Mackenzie to give her
report, and something impressive was clearly called for.
"Well, Sherman, how about it?" said his father with a big
grin. "I want to hear the answers to this myself. I've often
asked myself what it is you fellows do exactly. Cambell.
that's an excellent question."
Campbell smiled, taking her grandfather's praise at face
More irony; and not so welcome this time. The Lion had
always resented his going into the bond business instead of
the law, and the fact that he had prospered at it only made
things worse. Sherman began to feel angry. He couldn't sit
here and present a picture of himself as a Master of the
Universe, not with his father and mother and Judy hanging
on every word. At the same time, he couldn't give Campbell
some modest depiction of himself as a salesman, one among
many, or even as the chief bond salesman, which would sound
pompous without sounding impressive and wouldn't mean
anything to Campbell in any case - Campbell, who stood
there panting, primed to race back to her little friend, who
had a daddy who made books and had eighty people working
for him.
"Well, I deal in bonds, sweetheart. I buy them, I sell
them, I-"
"What are bonds? What is deal?"
Now his mother began laughing. "You've got to do better
than that, Sherman!"
"Well, honey, bonds are - a bond is - well, let me see,
what's the best way to explain it to you."
"Explain it to me, too, Sherman," said his father. "I must
have done five thousand leveraged purchase contracts, and
I always fell asleep before I could figure out why anyone
wanted the bonds."
That's because you and your two hundred Wall Street
lawyers were nothing but functionaries for the Master of
the Universe, thought Sherman, getting more annoyed
by the second. He saw Campbell looking at her grandfather
in consternation.
"Your grandfather's only joking, honey." He shot his father
a sharp look. "A bond is a way of loaning people money. Let's
say you want to build a road, and it's not a little road but
a big highway, like the highway we took up to Maine last
summer. Or you want to build a big hospital. Well, that
requires a lot of money, more money than you could ever
get by just going to a bank. So what you do is, you issue what
are called bonds."
"You build roads and hospitals, Daddy? That's what you
Now both his father and his mother started laughing. He
gave them openly reproachful looks, which only made them
merrier. Judy was smiling with what appeared to be a
sympathetic twinkle.
"No, I don't actually build them, sweetheart. I handle the
bonds, and the bonds are what make it possible-"
"You help build them?"
"Well, in a way."
"Which ones?"
"Which ones?"
"You said roads and hospitals."
"Well, not any one specifically."
"The road to Maine?"
Now both his father and mother were giggling the infuri-
ating giggle of people who are trying their best not to laugh
right in your face.
"No, not the-"
"I think you're in over your head, Sherman!" said his
mother. Head came close to soaring into a whoop.
"Not the road to Maine," said Sherman, ignoring the
Judy broke in. "Let me try."
"Well ... all right."
"Darling, said Judy, "Daddy doesn't build roads or
hospitals, and he doesn't help build them, but he does handle
the bonds for the people who raise the money."
"Yes. Just imagine that a bond is a slice of cake, and you
didn't bake the cake, but every time you hand somebody a
slice of the cake a tiny little bit comes off, like a little crumb,
and you can keep that."
Judy was smiling, and so was Campbell, who seemed to
realize that this was a joke, a kind of fairy tale based on what
her daddy did.
"Little crumbs?" she said encouragingly.
"Yes," said Judy. "Or you have to imagine little crumbs,
but a lot of little crumbs. If you pass around enough slices
of cake, then pretty soon you have enough crumbs to make
a gigantic cake."
"For real life?" asked Campbell.
"No, not for real life. You just have to imagine that." Judy
looked to Sherman's father and mother for approval of this
witty description of the bond business. They smiled, but
"I'm not sure you're making it any clearer for Campbell,"
said Sherman. "My goodness ... crumbs." He smiled to show
he knew this was only lunch-table banter. In fact ... he was
used to judy's supercilious attitude toward Wall Street, but
he was not happy about ... crumbs.
"I don't think it's such a bad metaphor," said Judy, also
smiling. Then she turned to his father. "Let me give you an
actual example, John, and you be the judge."
John. Even though there was something ... off ... about
crumbs, this was the first real indication that things might be
going over the edge. John. His father and mother had encour-
aged Judy to call them John and Celeste, but it made her
uncomfortable. So she avoided calling them anything. This
casual, confident John was not like her. Even his father
appeared a bit on guard.
Judy launched into a description of his Giscard scheme.
Then she said to his father, "Pierce & Pierce doesn't issue
them for the French government and doesn't buy them from
the French government but from whoever's already bought
them from the French government. So Pierce & Pierce's
transactions have nothing to do with anything France hopes
to build or develop or ... achieve. It's all been done long
before Pierce & Pierce enters the picture. So they're just sort
of ... slices of cake. Golden cake. And Pierce & Pierce
collects millions of marvelous" - she shrugged - "golden
"You can call them crumbs if you want," said Sherman,
trying not to sound testy, and failing.
"Well, that's the best I can do," Judy said brightly. Then
to his father and mother: "Investment banking is an unusual
field. I don't know if there is any way you can explain it to
anyone under twenty. Or perhaps under thirty."
Sherman now noticed that Campbell was standing by with
a distressed look on her face. "Campbell," he said, "you
know what? I think Mommy wants me to change professions."
He grinned, as if this were one of the funniest discussions
in years.
"Not at all," said Judy, laughing. "I'm not complaining
about your golden crumbs!"
Crumbs - enough! He could feel his anger rising. But he
kept on smiling. "Perhaps I ought to try decorating. Excuse
me, interior designing."
"I don't think you're cut out for it."
"Oh, I don't know. It must be fun getting pouffe curtains
and polished chintz for - who were those people? - those
Italians you did that apartment for? - the di Duccis?"
"I don't know that it's fun particularly."
"Well, then it's creative. Right?"
"Well ... at least you're able to point to something you've
done, something tangible, something clear-cut-"
"For the di Duccis."
"Even if it's for people who are shallow and vain, it's
something real, something describable, something con-
tributing to simple human satisfaction, no matter how
meretricious and temporary, something you can at least
explain to your children. I mean, at Pierce & Pierce, what
on earth do you tell each other you do every day?"
All at once, a wail. Campbell. Tears were coming down
her face. Sherman put his arms around her, but her body
was rigid.
"It's all right, sweetie!"
Judy got up and came over and put her arms around her,
too. "Oh, Campbell, Campbell, Campbell, sweetie pie! Daddy
and I were only teasing each other."
Pollard Browning was looking their way. So was Rawlie
Faces at tables all around, starting at the wounded child.
Because they were both trying to embrace Campbell,
Sherman found his face close to Judy's. He wanted to strangle
her. He glanced at his parents. They were aghast.
His father stood up. "I'm going to get a martini," he said.
"You're all too up-to-date for me."


Working for money is the omnipresent fact of American life.


People do not live by love alone. They live by
money too.


"Sir, would you carry my pouch for me ? I don't want to lose it again."
Accepting the small brocadebag, Musashi inspected it closely before tuck-
ing it into his kimono. "Is this the one your father left you ?"
"Yes, sir. I got it back from the Tokuganji at the beginning of the year. The
priest didn't take any of the money. You can use some of it if you need to."
"Thanks," Musashi said lightly. "I'll take good care of it."
"He has a talent I don't have," mused Musashi, thinking ruefully of his own
indefference to personal finances. The boy's innate prudence had taught Musa-
shi the meaning of economics. He appreciated the boy's trust and was growing
fonder of him by the day. He looked forward with enthusiasm to the task of
helping him develop his native intelligence.