“All sides of the situation!” the younger man now cried excitedly. “Jerry, that’s another thing you’re always saying. You’re always talking about seeing all sides of the situation. What the hell does it mean? Maybe a situation doesn’t have all sides. I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say it!”
At last, then, here was insurrection, open, naked insurrection, for the first time now clear and unmistaken! A kind of deadly silence had fallen on the group. Alsop continued to smile his little smile, he still maintained his air of judicial tolerance, but somehow his smile was pale, the warmth had gone out of his face, behind his spectacles his eyes had narrowed to cold slits.
“I just mean—that a great writer, a really great writer—will write about all types of people. He may write about murder and crime like this Dusty What’s-His-Name that you’re talking about, but he’ll write about othah things as well. In othah words,” said Alsop pontifically, “he’ll try to see the Whole Thing in its true perspective.”
“In what true perspective, Jerry?” the other burst out. “That’s another thing you’re always saying too—talking about the true perspective. I wish you’d tell me what it means!”
Here was heresy again, and more of it. The others held their breath while Alsop, still maintaining his judicial calm, answered quietly:
“I mean, a great writer will try to see life clearly and to see it whole. He’ll try to give you the whole pictuah.”
“Well, Dostoevski tries to, too,” said Monk doggedly.
“Yes, I know, but does he really now? I mean does he really show you the more wholesome and well-rounded view of things?”
“Ah—ah—Jerry, that’s another thing you’re always sayin—the more wholesome and well-rounded view of things. What does that mean? Who ever did give you the more wholesome and well-rounded view of things?”
“Well,” said Alsop judicially, “I think Dickens gave it to you.”
There was a dutiful murmur of agreement from the disciples, broken by the rebel’s angry mutter:
“Ah—Dickens! I’m tired hearing about Dickens all the time!”
This was sacrilege, and for a moment there was appalled silence, as if someone had at last committed a sin against the Holy Ghost. When Alsop spoke again his face was very grave, and his eyes had narrowed to cold points:
“You mean to say that you think this Russian fellow presents as wholesome and well-rounded a pictuah of life as Dickens does?”
“I told you,” the other said in a voice that trembled with excitement, “that I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say that. I’m only saying that there can be other great writers in the world besides Dickens.”
“And you think, then,” said Alsop quietly, “that this man is a greater writer than Dickens?”
“I haven’t—” the other began.
“Yes, but come on now,” said Alsop. “We’re all fair-minded people here—you really think he’s greater, don’t you?”