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I’ve uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twentieth century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter.” “There’s no fanatic like an academician,” Fleming grated. “You’re two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia.” “I love my work,” Miller answered mildly.
“Nobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You’re a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work…” His eyes narrowed significantly. “But you go too far.”
“My first loyalty is to my art,” Miller said. “Your what? What does that mean?” “A twentieth century term.” There was undisguised superiorit...
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In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workmanship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul—another concept from the golden days of the twentieth century, when men were free and could speak their minds.” “Beware, Miller!” Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. “You damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You’ll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember—it’s gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses.” He
