The Hairy Ape quotes

For the first time seeming to take notice of the uproar about him, turns around threateningly—in a tone of contemptuous authority. “Choke off dat noise! Where d’yuh get dat beer stuff? Beer, hell!

Beer’s for goils⁠—and Dutchmen.

Me for somep’n wit a kick to it! Gimme a drink, one of youse guys. Several bottles are eagerly offered. He takes a tremendous gulp at one of them;

His tone of exaltation ceases. He goes on mournfully. Yerra, what’s the use of talking? ’Tis a dead man’s whisper. To Yank resentfully. ’Twas them days men belonged to ships, not now.

’Twas them days a ship was part of the sea, and a man was part of a ship, and the sea joined all together and made it one.

Scornfully.

De engines and de coal and de smoke and all de rest of it! He can’t breathe and swallow coal dust, but I kin, see? Dat’s fresh air for me! Dat’s food for me! I’m new, get me? Hell in de stokehole? Sure!

It takes a man to work in hell.

Hell, sure, dat’s my fav’rite climate. I eat it up! I git fat on it! It’s me makes it hot! It’s me makes it roar! It’s me makes it move! Sure, on’y for me everyting stops. It all goes dead, get me?

Hell in de stokehole? Sure! It takes a man to work in hell. Hell, sure, dat’s my fav’rite climate. I eat it up! I git fat on it! It’s me makes it hot! It’s me makes it roar! It’s me makes it move!

Sure, on’y for me everyting stops.

It all goes dead, get me? De noise and smoke and all de engines movin’ de woild, dey stop. Dere ain’t nothin’ no more! Dat’s what I’m sayin’. Everyting else dat makes de woild move, somep’n makes it move.

I’m de ting in noise dat makes yuh hear it; I’m smoke and express trains and steamers and factory whistles; I’m de ting in gold dat makes it money! And I’m what makes iron into steel! Steel, dat stands for de whole ting! And

I’m steel⁠—steel⁠—steel! I’m de muscles in steel, de punch behind it!

As he says this he pounds with his fist against the steel bunks. All the men, roused to a pitch of frenzied self-glorification by his speech, do likewise. There is a deafening metallic roar, through which Yank’s voice can be heard bellowing. Slaves, hell!

All that was burnt out in our stock before I was born. Grandfather’s blast furnaces, flaming to the sky, melting steel, making millions—then father keeping those home fires burning, making more millions—and little me at the tail-end of it all.

I’m a waste product in the Bessemer process⁠—like the millions.

Or rather, I inherit the acquired trait of the byproduct, wealth, but none of the energy, none of the strength of the steel that made it.

Again affected and bored. Yes, I suppose I do. Pardon me for my outburst. When a leopard complains of its spots, it must sound rather grotesque. In a mocking tone.

Purr, little leopard. Purr, scratch, tear, kill, gorge yourself and be happy⁠—only stay in the jungle where your spots are camouflage. In a cage they make you conspicuous.

I don’t know what you are talking about.

One—two—tree—His voice rising exultantly in the joy of battle. Dat’s de stuff! Let her have it! All togedder now! Sling it into her! Let her ride! Shoot de piece now! Call de toin on her! Drive her into it! Feel her move! Watch her smoke!

Speed, dat’s her middle name!

Give her coal, youse guys! Coal, dat’s her booze! Drink it up, baby! Let’s see yuh sprint! Dig in and gain a lap! Dere she go-o-es This last in the chanting formula of the gallery gods at the six-day bike race.

With a contemptuous snort. Love, hell!

Hate, dat’s what. I’ve fallen in hate, get me?

Philosophically. ’Twould take a wise man to tell one from the other. With a bitter, ironical scorn, increasing as he goes on. But I’m telling you it’s love that’s in it.

Philosophically.

’Twould take a wise man to tell one from the other.

With a bitter, ironical scorn, increasing as he goes on. But I’m telling you it’s love that’s in it.

With heavy, biting sarcasm. ’Twas love at first sight, divil a doubt of it! If you’d seen the endearin’ look on her pale mug when she shrivelled away with her hands over her eyes to shut out the sight of him!

Sure, ’twas as if she’d seen a great hairy ape escaped from the Zoo!

Stung—with a growl of rage. Aw!

Dully. I was a fireman—stokin’ on de liners. Then with sudden rage, rattling his cell bars.

I’m a hairy ape, get me?

And I’ll bust youse all in de jaw if yuh don’t lay off kiddin’ me.

Feedin’ your face—sinkers and coffee—dat don’t touch it. It’s way down—at de bottom. Yuh can’t grab it, and yuh can’t stop it. It moves, and everyting moves. It stops and de whole woild stops. Dat’s me now—I don’t tick, see?—

I’m a busted Ingersoll, dat’s what. Steel was me, and I owned de woild. Now I ain’t steel, and de woild owns me.

Aw, hell! I can’t see—it’s all dark, get me? It’s all wrong! He turns a bitter mocking face up like an ape gibbering at the moon. Say, youse up dere, Man in de Moon, yuh look so wise, gimme de answer, huh?

Enuf to gimme life for!

I was born, see? Sure, dat’s de charge. Write it in de blotter. I was born, get me!

Jocosely. God pity your old woman! Then matter-of-fact. But I’ve no time for kidding. You’re soused. I’d run you in but it’s too long a walk to the station. Come on now, get up, or I’ll fan your ears with this club. Beat it now!

In a vague mocking tone.

Say, where do I go from here?

Giving him a push—with a grin, indifferently. Go to hell.

He got me, aw right. I’m trou. Even him didn’t tink I belonged. Then, with sudden passionate despair. Christ, where do I get off at? Where do I fit in? Checking himself as suddenly. Aw, what de hell! No squakin’, see! No quittin’, get me!

Croak wit your boots on!

He grabs hold of the bars of the cage and hauls himself painfully to his feet—looks around him bewilderedly—forces a mocking laugh. In de cage, huh? In the strident tones of a circus barker.