Broad. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“Quite likely. He is secretary of the local Fanschers.**
“Oh? Why should Glay give him the money? Is Glay a Fanscher as well?”
“If not, he is on the brink. So far, he does not affect the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies.”
Glinnes had a sudden insight. “The odd gray clothes? The shorn hair?”
“These are overt symbols. The movement has naturally provoked an angry reaction, and not unreasonably. The precepts of Fanscherade directly contradict conventional attitudes and must be considered anti-social.”
“This means nothing to me,” Glinnes grumbled. “I’ve never heard of Fanscherade till today.”
Akadie spoke in his most didactic voice: The name derives from old Glottisch: Fan is a corybantic celebration of glory. The thesis appears to be no more than an insipid truism: life is a commodity so precious that it must be used to best advantage. Who could argue otherwise? The Fanschers engender hostility when they try to implement the idea. They feel that each person must establish exalted goals, and fulfill them if he can. If he fails, he fails honorably and has satisfaction in his striving; he has used his life well. If he wins-” Akadie made a wry gesture. “Who in this life ever wins? Death wins. Still — Fanscherade is at its basis a glorious ideal.”
Glinnes made a skeptical sound. Five trillion folk of Alastor, all striving and straining? There’d be peace for no one.”
Akadie gave a smiling nod. “Understand this: Fanscherade is not a policy for five trillion. Fanscherade is one single outcry of wild despair, the loneliness of a single man lost among an infinity of infinities. Through Fanscherade the one man defies and rejects anonymity; he insists upon his personal magnificence.” Akadie paused, then made a wry grimace. “One might remark, parenthetically, that the only truly fulfilled Fanscher is the Connatic.” He sipped his wine. The sun had set. Overhead hung a high layer of frosty green cirrus; to south and north were wisps and tufts of rose, violet and citron. For a period the two men sat in silence.
Akadie spoke in a soft voice. “So then — that is Fanscherade. Few Fanschers comprehend their new creed; after all, most are children distressed by the sloth, the erotic excesses, the irresponsibility, the slovenly appearance of their parents. They deplore the cauch, the wine, the gluttonous feasts, all of which are consumed in the name of immediacy and vivid experience. Perhaps their principal intent is to establish a new and distinctive image for themselves. They cultivate a neutral appearance, on the theory that a person should be known not by the symbols he elects to display but by his conduct.”
“A group of strident and callow malcontents!” growled Glinnes. “Where do they find the insolence to challenge so many persons older and wiser than themselves?”
“Alas!” sighed Akadie. “You’ll find no novelty there.”
Glinnes poured more wine into the mugs. “It all seems foolish, unnecessary, and futile. What do people want from life? We Trills have all the good things: food, music, merriment. Is this mischievous? What else is there to live for? The Fanschers are gargoyles screaming at the sun.”
“On the face of it, the business is absurd,” said Akadie. “Still — ” He shrugged. “There is a certain grandeur in their point of view. Malcontents but why? To wrench sense from archaic nonsense; to strike the sigil of human will upon elemental chaos; to affirm the shining brilliance of one soul alone but alive among five trillion placcid gray corpuscles. Yes, it is wild and brave.”
“You sound like a Fanscher yourself,” snorted Glinnes.
Akadie shook his head. “There are worse attitudes, but no, not I. Fanscherade is a young man’s game. I’m far too old.”
“What do they think of hussade?”
“They consider it spurious activity, to distract folk from the true color and texture of life.” Glinnes
“Quite likely. He is secretary of the local Fanschers.**
“Oh? Why should Glay give him the money? Is Glay a Fanscher as well?”
“If not, he is on the brink. So far, he does not affect the mannerisms and idiosyncrasies.”
Glinnes had a sudden insight. “The odd gray clothes? The shorn hair?”
“These are overt symbols. The movement has naturally provoked an angry reaction, and not unreasonably. The precepts of Fanscherade directly contradict conventional attitudes and must be considered anti-social.”
“This means nothing to me,” Glinnes grumbled. “I’ve never heard of Fanscherade till today.”
Akadie spoke in his most didactic voice: The name derives from old Glottisch: Fan is a corybantic celebration of glory. The thesis appears to be no more than an insipid truism: life is a commodity so precious that it must be used to best advantage. Who could argue otherwise? The Fanschers engender hostility when they try to implement the idea. They feel that each person must establish exalted goals, and fulfill them if he can. If he fails, he fails honorably and has satisfaction in his striving; he has used his life well. If he wins-” Akadie made a wry gesture. “Who in this life ever wins? Death wins. Still — Fanscherade is at its basis a glorious ideal.”
Glinnes made a skeptical sound. Five trillion folk of Alastor, all striving and straining? There’d be peace for no one.”
Akadie gave a smiling nod. “Understand this: Fanscherade is not a policy for five trillion. Fanscherade is one single outcry of wild despair, the loneliness of a single man lost among an infinity of infinities. Through Fanscherade the one man defies and rejects anonymity; he insists upon his personal magnificence.” Akadie paused, then made a wry grimace. “One might remark, parenthetically, that the only truly fulfilled Fanscher is the Connatic.” He sipped his wine. The sun had set. Overhead hung a high layer of frosty green cirrus; to south and north were wisps and tufts of rose, violet and citron. For a period the two men sat in silence.
Akadie spoke in a soft voice. “So then — that is Fanscherade. Few Fanschers comprehend their new creed; after all, most are children distressed by the sloth, the erotic excesses, the irresponsibility, the slovenly appearance of their parents. They deplore the cauch, the wine, the gluttonous feasts, all of which are consumed in the name of immediacy and vivid experience. Perhaps their principal intent is to establish a new and distinctive image for themselves. They cultivate a neutral appearance, on the theory that a person should be known not by the symbols he elects to display but by his conduct.”
“A group of strident and callow malcontents!” growled Glinnes. “Where do they find the insolence to challenge so many persons older and wiser than themselves?”
“Alas!” sighed Akadie. “You’ll find no novelty there.”
Glinnes poured more wine into the mugs. “It all seems foolish, unnecessary, and futile. What do people want from life? We Trills have all the good things: food, music, merriment. Is this mischievous? What else is there to live for? The Fanschers are gargoyles screaming at the sun.”
“On the face of it, the business is absurd,” said Akadie. “Still — ” He shrugged. “There is a certain grandeur in their point of view. Malcontents but why? To wrench sense from archaic nonsense; to strike the sigil of human will upon elemental chaos; to affirm the shining brilliance of one soul alone but alive among five trillion placcid gray corpuscles. Yes, it is wild and brave.”
“You sound like a Fanscher yourself,” snorted Glinnes.
Akadie shook his head. “There are worse attitudes, but no, not I. Fanscherade is a young man’s game. I’m far too old.”
“What do they think of hussade?”
“They consider it spurious activity, to distract folk from the true color and texture of life.” Glinnes
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