Flappers and Philosophers

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

"I'm sorry; that sounded worse than I meant it. You see I always think of people as feline or canine, irrespective of sex." "Which are you?" "I'm feline. So are you. So are most Southern men an' most of these girls here." "What's Harry?" "Harry's canine distinctly. Al the men I've to-night seem to be canine." "What does canine imply? A certain conscious masculinity as opposed to subtlety?" "Reckon so. I never analyzed it—only I just look at people an' say 'canine' or 'feline' right off. It's right absurd I guess." "Not at all. I'm interested. I used to leave a theory about these people. I think they're freezing up." "What?" "Well, they're growing' like Swedes—Ibsenesque, you know. Very gradually getting gloomy and melancholy. It's these long winters. Ever read Ibsen?" She shook her head. "Well, you find in his characters a cerulean brooding rigidity. They're righteous, narrow, and cheerless, without infinite possibilities for great sorrow or joy." "Without smiles or tears?" "Exactly. That's my theory. You see there are thousands of Swedes up here. They come, I imagine, because the climate is very much like their own, and there's been a gradual mingling. There're probably not half a dozen here to-night, but—we've had four Swedish governors. Am I boring you?"