The Crowded Lonely

"Beatnikery is out," Mortimer told himself as he paged through a copy of Life. "When Smithies quote Ginsburg instead of Donne, all exclusiveness is lost." We start a quiet little revolt and before we know it, Random House and Time and C.B.S. take it over and build it into a big thing. Even the New Yorker expresses horror."

"Miss America has found it politically fit to patronize us, sweetly stating that going with a beatnik would be a rich experience. Ha!" Mortimer unleashed his usually docile imagination to understand better the enormity of the crisis.

"In a few months, maybe even tomorrow, Hollywood will make a movie of The Subterraneans, thereby delivering the kiss of death. It is time to get out, it is time for rats to leave the sinking ship," concluded Mortimer, not altogether pleased with the imagery.

Mortimer's beard stroked his palm. "I can't even hide out at the hungry i. Everyone, including Sheila Graham and the Kingston Trio will see me."

Mortimer sighed shallowly and surveyed the Leverett Towers with melancholy, organizing Further Thought.

"A hell of a note to come back to school on. On top of picking classes, I have to lose my whole way of existence to the masses and their media. It has become painful to be seen in sneakers unless you are carrying a basketball. Keep your beard and some little Cliffie thinks it calls for a humorous comment.

The unfairness of the situation came crashing down on Mortimer. "A martyr to a cause may have to suffer pain, but he should never be made to suffer popularization. A man's struggle for individuality is sacred. It is not material for Life features."

Mortimer saw that the fight was over, that it was time to leave the program-littered battlefield.

"Out, all of it out," muttered Mortimer as he stripped his friendly Pollack copies from the wall. "Back to the old, old way of life," he remarked dully, bringing his pipe, polished loafers and Tchaikowsky collection to the fore. "The only way to preserve one's private identity today is to be a cold." Mort sucked on his pipe for solace.