I
do not like this beggar.
* * * * *
But I grow warm with fellowship toward him after I have left him behind.
There is something comradely about his amazing cynicism. People, thinks
this beggar, are ashamed of themselves for being strong, for having two
legs, for not being poor, brow-beaten, cheek-turning humble mendicants.
People, thinks this beggar, are secretly ashamed of themselves for being
part of success. And their shame is inspired by fear. When they see me
they suddenly feel uncertain about themselves. When they see me they think
that reverses and misfortunes and calamities might overtake them and
reduce them to my condition. Thinking this, they grow indignant for an
instant with a society that produces beggars. Not because it produced me.
But perhaps it might produce them--as beggars. And then remembering that
they are responsible for my plight--they being society--they beg my
pardon by giving me money and a pleading look. Oho! You should see the
pleading looks they give me. Men and women pass and plead with me not to
hit them too hard with my slapstick and bladder. They plead with me to
spare them, not to look at them. And when they give me a dime it is a
gesture intended to annihilate me.
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