The War of the Worlds

by H.G. Wells

With wine and food, the confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.

I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental College burst into smoke red flame, and the tower of the little church beside it slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of the mosque had vanished,

so there had been mosques in england since at least the late 19th century

“It’s no kindness to the right sort of wife,” he said, “to make her a widow”;

“Do you know what’s over there?” I said, pointing at the pine tops that hid the Martians. “Eh?” said he, turning. “I was explainin’ these is vallyble.” “Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!”

Never before had I seen houses burning without the accompaniment of an obstructive crowd.

His landlady came to the door, loosely wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her husband followed ejaculating.

Cities, nations, civilisation, progress—it’s all over. That game’s up. We’re beat.” “But if that is so, what is there to live for?” The artilleryman looked at me for a moment. “There won’t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so; there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I reckon the game is up. If you’ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you’d better chuck ’em, away. They ain’t no further use.” “You mean—” “I mean that men like me are going on living—for the sake of the breed. I tell you, I’m grim set on living.

All these—the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way—they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them—no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other—Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work—I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits. Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be caught cheerful. They’ll be quite glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singers—I can imagine them. I can imagine them,” he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. “There’ll ...

You see, how I mean to live is underground. I’ve been thinking about the drains. Of course those who don’t know drains think horrible things; but under this London are miles and miles—hundreds of miles—and a few days’ rain and London empty will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are big enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there’s cellars, vaults, stores, from which bolting passages may be made to the drains. And the railway tunnels and subways. Eh? You begin to see? And we form a band—able-bodied, clean-minded men. We’re not going to pick up any rubbish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again.” “As you meant me to go?” “Well—I parleyed, didn’t I?” “We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.” “Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want also—mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies—no blasted rolling eyes. We can’t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die. They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race. And they can’t be happy. Moreover, dying’s none so dreadful; it’s the funking makes it bad.