Marjorie Morningstar

by Herman Wouk

“Thank God, as you see me. Health is everything, the rest is mud.”

Aunt Dvosha said, “Thank God. We were sitting right next to the radiator. Ninety per cent of t.b. comes from radiator heat.”

Mrs. Goldstone said, “You aren’t eating, Mrs. Raphaelson?” “Chicken liver is concentrated poison,” said Aunt Dvosha pleasantly. Sandy choked and

Sandy’s mother was more troubled by Aunt Dvosha. She kept watching the vegetarian out of the corner of her eye. When the sweetbreads were served and she was about to eat them, Aunt Dvosha laid a hand on her arm and Mrs. Goldstone jumped as though pinched. “Excuse me,” said Aunt Dvosha, “but don’t.” “Pardon me?” “Excuse me, I know it’s not my business. But you’re an asthenic type. Like me. For an asthenic type to eat a gland—you may as well cut your throat and be done with it.”

“Marjorie, my sweet, we’ve fallen in love with each other, that’s all. You love me. I love you. Don’t lose any sleep over it.” Electric

I have a fatal lack of central organizing energy.

They’re like dominant seventh chords. If they’re not resolved they hang on and on in the mind, for years, for decades—”

All I care about is my own few years above the ground. I’d rather spend them with the pleasant doomed people than with the seedy squawking heroes of the future.

All girls, including you, are too goddamn emancipated nowadays.

For years, now, she had been afraid even to think about Germany. Sometimes in her restless nights she had had nightmares of being pursued through Berlin by storm troopers. But it had never seemed quite real to her that somewhere on the face of the solid green earth human beings were doing to other human beings what the papers said the Nazis were doing to the Jews. She hoped that in the end the atrocities would turn out to be mostly newspaper talk, like the World War stories of the Huns eating Belgian babies. Her conscience had pricked her from time to time into giving part of her savings to refugee organizations. Beyond that, her mind was closed to the Nazis.

That’s the big question mark. Is the pup just displaying youthful high spirits, or is he a permanent biter and messer?”

His eyes searched her face. He opened the piano. One of the candles sputtered and snapped, and then burnt clear again. He said, “Would you mind my being sort of abrupt?” “Well, how can I stop you?” “I have the strongest possible feeling that you’ve sort of fallen for Mike Eden.”

She was a little scared. But she withdrew her hand with gentleness, and the words came clearly and calmly. “I hope you’ll believe, Noel, that I wasn’t being coy. On my word of honor, I had to hear you say it to be absolutely sure. The answer is no, Noel. I won’t marry you. It’s impossible. I’m terribly sorry.”