The Offshore Pirate by F. Scott Fitzgerald. This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-soaked stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children's eyes. From the western half of the sky the sun was shining little golden discs at the sea. If you gaze intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset. About halfway between the Florida shore and the golden collar of a white steam-yacht, very young and graceful was riding at anchor and under a blue and white awning aft, a yellow-haired girl reclined in a wicker satis reading The Revolt of the Angels by Anatole France.  Her feet, stockingless, and adorned rather than clad in blue satin slippers which swung nonchalantly from her toes, were perched on the arm of a sati adjoining the one she occupied. And as she read, she intermittently regaled herself by a faint application to her tongue of a half-lemon that she held in her hand. The other half, sucked dry, lay on the duck at her feet and rocked very gently to and fro at the most imperceptible motion of the tide. The second half-lemon was well nigh popeless and the golden collar had grown astonishing in width. When suddenly the drowsy silence which enveloped the yacht was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps and an elderly man topped with orderly gray hair and clad in a white flannel suit appeared at the head of the companion-way. There he paused for a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the sun, and then, seeing the girl under the awning, he uttered a long, even grunt of disapproval. He had intended thereby to obtain a rise of any sort. He was doomed to disappointment. The girl calmly turned over two pages, turned back one, raised the lemon mechanically to tasting distance, and then very faintly, but quite unmistakably, yawned. Ardita, said the gray-haired man sternly, Ardita uttered a small sound, indicating nothing. Ardita, he repeated, Ardita. Ardita raised the lemon languidly, allowing three words to slip out before it reached her tongue.  Ardita! What? Well, you'd listen to me, or will I have to get a servant to hold you while I talk to you? The lemon descended very slowly and scornfully. Put it in writing. Will you have the decency to close that abominable book and discard that damn lemon for two minutes? Oh, can't you lend me a loan for a second? Ardita, I have just received a telephone message from the shore. Telephone? She showed, for the first time, a faint interest. Yes. It was... Do you mean to say, she interrupted, wonderingly, that they let you run a wire out here? Yes. And just now, one other boat's bump into it? No. It's run along the bottom. Five minutes... Well, I'll be damned. Gosh, science is golden or something, isn't it? Will you let me say what I started to? Shoot. Well, it seems. Well, I am up here. He paused, and swallowed several times, distractedly. Oh, yes, young woman. Colonel Moreland has called up again to ask me, to be sure to bring you in to dinner. His son Tobi has come all the way from New York to meet you, and he's invited several other young people. For the last time, will you? No, said Ardita, shortly. I won't. I came along on this darn cruise with you, with the one idea of going to Palm Beach, and you knew it. And I absolutely refused to meet any darn old Colonel, or any darn young Tobi, or any darn old young people, or to set foot in any other darn old town in this crazy state.  Very well. This is the last straw. If you're infatuation for this man, a man who is notorious for his excesses, a man your father would not have allowed to so much as mention your name. You have rejected the demi-monde rather than the circles in which you have presumably grown up.  I've heard that story before. You know, I'd like nothing better. From now on—he announced, randiliquently—you are no niece of mine, I—oooh! The cry was run from Ardita, with the agony of a lost soul. Will you stop boring me? Will you go away? Will you jump overboard and drown? Do you want me to throw this buck at you? If you dare do any— Smack! The revolt of the angels sailed through the air, missed its target by the length of a short nose, and bumped cheerfully down the companion way. The grey-haired man made an instinctive step backward, and then two cautious steps forward. Ardita jumped to her five-feet-four, and stared at him defiantly, her grey eyes blazing. Keep off!  Because I darned, please. You've grown unbearable, your disposition. You've made it that way. No child ever has a bad disposition, unless it's her fancy's fault. Whatever I am, you did it. Muddering something under his breath, her uncle turned, and, walking forward, called in a loud voice for the launch. Then he returned to the awning, where Ardita had again seated herself and resumed her attention to the lemon. I am going ashore, he said slowly. I will be out again at nine o'clock to-night. When I return, we start back to New York, whither I shall turn you over to your aunt for the rest of your natural or rather unnatural life. He paused, and looked at her, and then all at once something in the utter childness of her beauty seemed to puncture his anger like an inflated tire, and render him helpless, uncertain, utterly fatuous. Ardita, he said, not unkindly. I'm no fool, I've been round, I know men, and child confirmed libertines don't reform until they're tired, and then they're not themselves, they're husks of themselves. He looked at her as if expecting agreement, but receiving no side or sound of it he continued. Perhaps the man loves you. That's possible. He's loved many women, and he'll love many more. Less than a month ago, one month, Ardita, he was involved in a notorious affair with that red-haired woman, Mimi Merrill. Just to give her the diamond bracelet that the Tsar of Russia gave his mother. You know, you read the papers. Thrilling scandals by an anxious uncle, yawned Ardita, have it filmed. Wicked clubmen making eyes at virtuous flapper, virtuous flapper conclusively vamped by his lurid past, plans to meet him at Palm Beach, foiled by anxious uncle. Well, you tell me why the devil you want to marry him. I'm sure I couldn't say, said Ardita shortly. Maybe because he's the only man I know, good or bad, who has an imagination and the courage of his convictions. Maybe it's to get away from the young fools that spend their vacuous hours pursuing me around the country. But as for the famous Russian bracelet, you can set your mind at rest on that score. She's going to give it to me at Palm Beach, if you'll show a little intelligence. How about the red-haired woman? He hasn't seen her for six months, she said angrily. Don't you suppose I have enough pride to see that?  She put her chin on the air like the statue of Franz Araus, and then spoiled the pose somewhat by raising the lemon for action. Is it the Russian bracelet that fascinates you? No, I'm merely trying to give you the sort of argument that would appeal to your intelligence, and I'd wish you'd go away, she said, her temper rising again. You know, I never changed my mind.  I won't go ashore. Won't! Do you hear me? Won't! Very well, he said, and you won't go to Palm Beach, either. Of all the selfish, spoiled, uncontrolled, disagreeable, impossible girl I have—splush! The half-lemon caught him in the neck. Simultaneously came a hail from over the side. The launch is ready, Mr. Farnham. Two full of words enraged to speak, Mr. Farnham cast one utterly condemning glance at his niece, and, turning, ran swiftly down the ladder. End of Part 1 The Offshore Pirate Part 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Five o'clock robed down from the sun and plumped soundlessly into the sea. The golden collar widened into a glittering island at a faint breeze that had been playing with the edges of the awning, and swaying one of those dangling blue slippers became suddenly freighted with song. It was a chorus of men in close harmony, and in perfect rhythm to an accompanying sound of oars dealing the blue waters. Ardita lifted her head and listened.  Ardita's brow wrinkled in astonishment. Sitting very still, she listened eagerly as the chorus took up a second verse.  With an exclamation she tossed her book to the dusk, where it sprawled at a straddle, and hurried to the rail. Fifty feet away a large rowboat was approaching, containing seven men, six of them rowing, and one standing up in the stern, keeping time to their song with an orchestra leader's baton. Oysters in rocks sawdust and socks, who could make flocks out of cellos? The leader's eyes suddenly rusted on Ardita, who was leaning over the rail spellbound with curiosity. He made a quick movement with his baton, and the singing instantly ceased. She saw that he was the only white man in the boat. The six rowers were Negroes. Narcissus ahoy, he called politely. What's the idea that all the discord demanded Ardita, cheerfully, insist the varsity crew from the county nut-farm? By this time the boat was scraping the side of the yacht, and a great bulking Negro in the bow turned round and grasped the ladder. Thereupon the leader left his position in the stern, and before Ardita had realized his intention he ran up the ladder and stood breathless before her on the deck. Ha! the women and children will be spared, he said briskly. All crying babies will be immediately drowned, and all males put in double irons. Digging her hands excitedly down into the pockets of her dress, Ardita stared at him, speechless with astonishment. He was a young man, with a scornful mouth, and the bright blue eyes of a healthy baby set in a dark, sensitive face. His hair was pitch black, damp and curly, the hair of a Grecian statue gone brunette. He was trembling built, trembling dressed, and graceful as an agile quarterback. Well, I'll be a son of a gun, she said daisily. They eyed each other coolly. Do you surrender the ship? Is this an outburst of wit, demanded Ardita?  I asked you if you surrendered the ship. I thought this country was dry, said Ardita disdainfully.  You better get off this yacht. What? The young man's voice expressed incredulity. Get off the yacht! You heard me! He looked at her for a moment, as if considering what she had said. No, said his scornful mouth, slowly. No, I won't get off the yacht. You can get off it, if you wish. Going to the rail, he gave a curt command, and immediately the crew of the rowboats scrambled up the ladder, and ranged themselves in line before him, a cold black and burly darky at one end, and a miniature mulatto of four feet nine at two other. They seemed to be uniformly dressed in some sort of blue costume, ornamented with dust, mud, and tatters. Over the shoulder of each was slung a small, heavy-looking white sack, and under their arms they carried large black cases, apparently containing musical instruments. Ten, shut! commanded the young man, snapping his own heels together crisply. Right dress, front, step out here, babe. The smallest negro took a quick step forward and saluted. Take command, go down below, catch the crew, and tie him up, all except the engineer. Bring him up to me. Oh, and pile those bags by the rail there. Yes, sir! Babe saluted again, and willing about motion for the five others to gather about him. Then after a short, whispered consultation, they all filed noiselessly down the companion way.  Otherwise what? Otherwise you're going to see in a ship. With a little sigh, as for a crisis well past, the young man sank into the satis Ardita had lately vacated and stretched his arms lazily. The corners of his mouth relaxed appreciatively as he looked round at the rich striped awning, the polished brass, and the luxurious fittings of the deck. His eye fell on the book, and then on the exhausted lemon. Hmm, Stonewall Jackson claimed that lemon juice cleared his head. Your head felt pretty clear? Ardita disdained to answer. Because inside of five minutes you'll have to make a clear decision, whether it's go or stay. He picked up the book and opened it curiously. The revolt of the angels. Sounds pretty good. French, eh? He stared at her with new interest. You French? No. What's your name? Farnham. Farnham what? Ardita Farnham.  You ought to break those nervous habits while you're young. Come over here and sit down. Ardita took a carved jade case from her pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a conscious coolness, though she knew her hand was trembling a little. Then she crossed over with her supple swinging walk, and sitting down in the other sati, blew a mouthful of smoke at the awning. You can't get me off this yacht, she said steadily, and you haven't got very much sense if you think you'll get far with it. My uncle'll have wireless zigzagging all over this ocean by half past six. She looked quickly at his face, caught anxiety stamped there plainly in the faintest depression of the mouths' corners. It's all the same to me, she said, shrugging her shoulders, tis'nt my yacht. I don't mind going for a couple of hours' cruise. I'll even lend you that book so you'll have something to read on the revenue boat that takes you up to sing-a-sang. He laughed scornfully. If that's advice, you'd needn't bother. This is part of a plan arranged before I ever knew this yacht existed. If it hadn't been this one, it had been the next one we passed anchored along the coast. Who are you? demanded our data suddenly. And what are you? You've decided not to go ashore. I never even faintly considered it. We're generally known, he said, all seven of us, as Curtis Carlisle and his six black buddies, late of the winter garden and the midnight frolic. Your singers? We were until to-day. At present, due to those white bags you see there, were fugitives from justice, and if the reward offered for a capture hasn't by this time reached twenty thousand dollars, I miss my guess. What's in the bags? asked Ardita curiously. Well, he said, for the present we'll call it mud. Florida mud. End of part two. Part three of the Offshore Pirate. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. The Offshore Pirate by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Part three. Within ten minutes after Curtis Carlisle's interview with a very frightened engineer, the yacht Narcissus was under way, steaming south through a balmy tropical twilight. The little mulatto, babe, who seems to have Carlisle's implicit confidence, took full command of the situation. Mr. Farnon's valet and the chef, the only members of the crew on board, except the engineer, having shown fight, were now reconsidering, strapped securely to their bunks below. Trombone Moes, the biggest negro, was set busy with a can of paint, obliterating the name Narcissus from the bow, and substituting the name Hula Hula, and the others congregated aft, and became intently involved in a game of craps. Having given order for a meal to be prepared and served on deck at 7.30, Carlisle rejoined Ardita, and, sinking back into his sati, half closed his eyes, and fell into a state of profound abstraction. Ardita scrutinized him carefully, and clasped him immediately as a romantic figure. He gave the effect of towering self-confidence erected on a slight foundation.  He's not like me, she thought. There's a difference somewhere. Being a supreme egotist, Ardita frequently thought about herself. Never having had her egotism disputed, she did it entirely naturally, and with no detraction from her unquestioned charm. Though she was nineteen, she gave the effect of a high-spirited, precocious child, and in the present glow of her youth and beauty all the men and women she had known were but driftwood on the ripples of her temperament. She had met other egotists. In fact, she found that selfish people bored her rather less than unselfish people. But as yet there had not been one she had not eventually defeated and brought to her feet. But though she recognized an egotist in the sati, she felt none of that usual shutting of doors in her mind which meant clearing ship for action. On the contrary, her instinct told her that this man was somehow completely pregneable and quite defenseless. When Ardita defied convention, and of late it had been her chief amusement, it was from an intense desire to be herself, and she felt that this man, on the contrary, was preoccupied with his own defiance. She was much more interested in him than she was in her own situation, which affected her as the prospect of a matinee might affect a ten-year-old child. She had implicit confidence in her ability to take care of herself under any and all circumstances. The night deepened. A pale new moon smiled misty-eyed upon the sea, and as the shore faded dimly out and dark clouds were blown like leaves along the far horizon a great haze of moonshine suddenly bathed the yacht and spread an avenue of glittering mail in her swift path. From time to time there was the bright flare of a match, as one of them lighted a cigarette. But except for the low undertone of the throbbing engines and the even wash of the waves about the stern, the yacht was quiet as a dreamboat, starbound through the heavens. Round them bowed the smell of the night sea, bringing with it an infinite langer. Carlisle broke the silence at last. "'Lucky girl,' he sighed. "'I've always wanted to be rich and buy all this beauty.' Ardita yawned. "'I'd rather be you,' she said frankly. "'You would, for about a day. But you do seem to possess a lot of nerve for a flapper. "'I wish she wouldn't call me that. Beg your pardon.' "'As to nerve,' she continued slowly. "'It's my one redeeming feature. I'm not afraid of anything in heaven or earth. "'I am.' "'To be afraid,' said Ardita, a person has either to be very great and strong or else a coward. "'I'm neither.' She paused for a moment, and eagerness crept into her town. "'But I want to talk about you. What on earth have you done? And how did you do it?' "'Why?' he demanded cynically. "'Going to write a movie about me?' "'Go on,' she urged, lying to me by the moonlight. "'Do a fabulous story.' A negro appeared, switched on a string of small lights under the awning, and began setting the wicker table for supper. And while they ate cold-sliced chicken, salad, artichokes, and strawberry jam from the plentiful larder below, Carlile began to talk, hesitatingly at first, but eagerly as he saw she was interested. Ardita scarcely touched her food as she watched his dark, young face, handsome, ironic, faintly ineffectual. He began life as a poor kid in a Tennessee town, he said, so poor that his people were the only white family in their street. He never remembered any white children. But there were inevitably a dozen picking any streaming in his trail, passionate admirers whom he kept in tow by the vividness of his imagination, and the amount of trouble he was always getting the men and out of. And it seemed that this association diverted a rather unusual musical gift into a strange channel. There had been a colored woman named Belle Pope Calhoun, who played the piano at parties given for white children, nice white children that would have passed Curtis Carlile with a sniff. But the ragged little Po White used to sit beside her piano by the hour and try to get in an alto with one of those kazoo's that boys hummed through. Before he was thirteen he was picking up a living, teasing ragtime out of a battered violin and little cafes round Nashville. Eight years later the ragtime craze hit the country, and he took six darkies on the Orpheum circuit. Five of them were boys he had grown up with. The other was the little mulatto, babe, divine, who was a wharf-nigger round New York, and long before that a plantation hand in Bermuda until he stuck an eight-inch stiletto in his master's pack. Almost before Carlile realized his good fortune he was on Broadway, with offers of engagements on all sides, and more money than he had ever dreamed of. It was about then that a change began in his whole attitude, a rather curious, embittering change. It was when he realized that he was spending the golden years of his life gibbering round a stage with a lot of black men. His act was good of its kind. Three trombones, three saxophones, and Carlile's flute, and it was his own peculiar sense of rhythm that made all the difference. But he began to grow strangely sensitive about it, began to hate the thought of appearing, dreaded it from day to day they were making money. Each contract he signed called for more. But when he went to managers and told them that he wanted to separate from his sextet and go on as a regular pianist that laughed at him and told him he was crazy, it would be an artistic suicide, he used to laugh afterward at the phrase artistic suicide. They all used it. Half a dozen times they played at private dances at three thousand dollars a night. And it seemed as if these crystallized all his distaste for his mode of livelihood. They took place in clubs and houses that he couldn't have gone into in the daytime. After all, he was merely playing to the role of the eternal monkey, a sort of supplemented chorus man. He was sick of the very smell of the theater, of powder and rouge, and the chatter of the green room, and the patronizing approval of the boxes. He couldn't put his heart into it any more. The idea of a slow approach to the luxury of leisure drove him wild. He was, of course, progressing toward it, but, like a child, eating his ice cream so slowly that he couldn't taste it at all. He wanted to have a lot of money and time and opportunity to read and play, and the sort of men and women round him that he could never have. The kind who, if they thought of him at all, would have considered him rather contemptible. In short, he wanted all those things which he was beginning to lump under the general head of aristocracy, and aristocracy which it seemed almost any money could buy, except money made as he was making it. He was twenty-five then, without family or education or any promise, that he would succeed in a business career. He began speculating wildly, and within three weeks he had lost every cent he had saved. Then the war came. He went to Plattsburg, and even there his profession followed him. A brigadier general called him up to headquarters and told him he could serve his country better as a band leader, so he spent the war entertaining celebrities behind the line with a headquarters band. It was not so bad, except that when the infantry came limping back from the trenches he wanted to be one of them. The sweat and mud they wore seemed only one of those ineffable symbols of aristocracy that were forever eluding him. It was the private dances that did it. After I came back from the war the old routine started. We had an offer from a syndicate of Florida hotels. It was only a question of time then. He broke off, and Ardita looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head. �No,� he said. �I�m going to tell you about it. I�m enjoying it too much. And I�m afraid I�d lose a little of that enjoyment if I shared it with anyone else. I want to hang on to those few breathless heroic moments when I stood out before them all, and let them know I was more than a damn bobbing, squawking clown. From up forward came suddenly the low sound of singing. The Negroes had gathered together on the deck, and their voices rose together in a haunting melody that soared in poignant harmonics toward the moon. And Ardita listens in enchantment. �Oh, down, oh, down. Miami want to take me down Milky Way, oh, down, oh, down. Miami say to Mara, but Mama say to Day, Yes, Mammy, say to Day!� Carlisle sighed, and was silent for a moment, looking up at the gathered host of stars, blinking like arc lights in the warm sky. The Negroes� song had died away to a plaintive humming, and seemed as if minute by minute the brightness and the great silence were increasing until he could almost hear the midnight twillet of the mermaids as they combed their silver-dripping curls under the moon, and gossiped to each other of the fine wrecks they lived on, the green, opalescent avenues below. �You see� said Carlisle softly, �this is the beauty I want. Beauty has got to be astonishing� �it�s got to burst in on you like a dream, like the exquisite eyes of a girl.� He turned to her, but she was silent. �You see, don�t you, Anita?� �I mean, Ardita.� Again, she made no answer. She had been sound asleep for some time. End of Part 3 The Offshore Pirate Part 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Writing by Bologna Times. The Offshore Pirate by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Part 4 In the dense sun-flooded noon of next day a spot in the sea before them resolved casually into a green and gray islet, apparently composed of a great granite cliff at its northern end which slanted south through a mile of vivid coppice and grass to a sandy beach melting lazily into the surf. And Ardita, reading in her favorite seat, came to the last page of The Revolt of the Angels, and slamming the book shut, looked up and saw it, she gave a little cry of delight, and called to Carlisle, who was standing mootily by the rail. �Is this it? Is this where you�re going?� Carlisle shrugged his shoulders carelessly. �You got me.� He raised his voice and called up to the acting skipper. �Oh, babe, is this your island?� The mulatto�s miniature head appeared from around the corner of the duckhouse. �Yes, sir! This is it!� Carlisle joined Ardita. �Looks sort of sporting, doesn�t it?� �Yes,� she agreed. But it doesn�t look big enough to be much of a hiding place. �You�re still putting your faith in those wirelesses your uncle was going to have zigzag and round? �No� said Ardita frankly. �I�m all for you. I�d really like to see you make a getaway.� He laughed. �Haha! You�re our lady luck. Guess we�ll have to keep you with us as a mascot, for the present, anyway.� �You couldn�t very well ask me to swim back,� she said coolly. �If you do, I�m going to start writing dime novels founded on that interminable history of your life you gave me last night.� He flushed and stiffened slightly. �I�m very sorry I bored you.� �Oh, you didn�t, until just at the end, with some story about how furious you were, because you couldn�t dance with the ladies you played music for.� He rose angrily. �You�ve got a darn mean little tongue.� �Excuse me,� she said, melting into laughter. �But I�m not used to having men regale me with the story of their life ambitions, especially if they�ve lived such a deathly, platonic lives.� �Why? What do men usually regale you with? �Oh, they talk about me,� she yawned. �They tell me I�m the spirit of youth and beauty.� �What do you tell them? �Oh, I agree quietly.� �Does every man you meet tell you he loves you?� �Why shouldn�t he? All life is just a progression toward, and then a recession from,� one phrase, �I love you.� Carlyle laughed and sat down. �That�s very true. That�s not bad. Did you make that up? �Yes,� or rather I found it out. It doesn�t mean anything especially. It�s just clever.� �It�s the sort of remark,� he said gravely, �that�s typical of your class.� �Oh!� she interrupted him impatiently. �Don�t start that lecture on aristocracy again. I distrust people who can be intense at this hour in the morning. It�s a mild form of insanity. A sort of breakfast-food-jag. Morning�s the time to sleep, swim, and be careless. Ten minutes later they had swung round in a wide circle, as if to approach the island from the north. �There�s a trick somewhere,� committed Ardita thoughtfully. �He can�t mean just to anchor up against this cliff.� They were heading straight in now toward the solid rock, which must have been well over a hundred feet tall, and not until they were within fifty yards of it did Ardita see their objective. Then she clapped her hands in delight. There was a break in the cliff, entirely hidden by a curious overlapping of rock, and through this break the yacht entered, and very slowly traversed, a narrow channel of crystal-clear water between high-gray walls. Then they were riding it anchor in a miniature world of green and gold, a gilded bay smooth as glass, and set round with tiny palms, the hull resembling the mirror lakes and twig trees that children set up in sandpiles. �Not so darn bad!� cried Carlisle, excitedly. �I guess that little coon knows his way around this corner, the Atlantic.� His exuberance was contagious, and Ardita became quite jubilant. �It�s an absolutely sure-fire hiding place.� �Lord, yes, it�s the sort of island you read about.� The rowboat was lowered into the golden lake, and they pulled to shore. �Come on� said Carlisle, as they landed in the slushy sand. �We�ll go exploring.� The fringe of palms was in turn ringed in by a round mile of flat, sandy country. They followed it south, and brushing through a father rim of tropical vegetation, came out on a pearl-gray virgin beach, where Ardita kicked off her brown golf shoes. She seemed to have permanently abandoned stockings, and went waiting. Then they sauntered back to the yacht, where the indefatigable babe had luncheon ready for them. He had posted a look-out on the high cliff to the north to watch the sea on both sides, though he doubted if the entrance to the cliff was generally known. He had never even seen a map on which the island was marked. �What�s its name?� asked Ardita. �The island, I mean.� �No name tall,� chuckled Babe. �Reckon she just island?� In the late afternoon they sat with their backs against great boulders on the highest part of the cliff, and Carlisle sketched for her his vague plans. He was sure they were hot after him by this time. The total proceeds of the coup he had pulled off, and concerning which he still refused to enlighten her, he estimated at just under a million dollars. He counted on lying up here several weeks, and then setting off southward, keeping well outside the usual channels of travel, rounding the horn, and heading for Calaio and Peru. The details of coaling and provisioning he was leaving entirely to Babe, who, it seemed, had sailed the seas in every capacity, from cabin-boy aboard a coffee-trader to virtual first mate on a Brazilian pirate craft, whose skipper had long since been hung. �If he had been white, he had been king of South America long ago� said Carlisle emphatically.  He�s got the guile of every race and nationality, whose blood is in his veins.  He worships me because I�m the only man in the world who can play better ragtime than he can. We used to sit together on the wharfs, down on the New York waterfront, he with a bassoon, and me with an oboe, and we�d blend minor keys in African harmonics, a thousand years old, until the rats would crawl up the posts and sit round, groaning and squeaking, like dogs will, in front of a phonograph. Our data roared. �How you can tell him!� Carlisle grinned. �I swear, that�s the goss. �What are you going to do when you get to Calo?� she interrupted. �Take ship for India. I want to be a Raja. I mean it. My idea is to go up to Afghanistan somewhere, buy up a palace and a reputation, and then after about five years, appear in England with a foreign accent and a mysterious past. But India first. Do you know they say that all the gold in the world drifts very gradually back to India? Something fascinating about that to me. And I want leisure to read an immense amount. �How about after that?� Then� he answered defiantly, �comes aristocracy. Laugh if you want to, but at least you�ll have to admit that I know what I want, which I imagine is more than you do. �On the contrary� contradicted Ardita, reaching in her pocket for her cigarette case. �When I met you, I was in the midst of a great uproar of all my friends and relatives because I did know what I wanted. What was it? �A man� he started. �You mean you were engaged?� �After a fashion. If you hadn�t come aboard, I had every intention of slipping ashore yesterday evening, how long ago it seems, and meeting him in Palm Beach. He�s waiting there for me with a bracelet that once belonged to Catherine of Russia. �Now don�t mutter anything about aristocracy� she put in quickly. �I liked him simply because he had had an imagination and the utter courage of his convictions.� �But your family� disproved, eh? �What there is of it?  It seems he got into some scandal with a red-haired woman named Mimi something. It was frightfully exaggerated,� he said, �and men don�t lie to me. And anyway I didn�t care what he�d done. It was the future that counted, and I�d see to that. When a man�s in love with me he doesn�t care for other amusements. I told him to drop her like a hot cake, and he did. �I feel rather jealous� said Carlisle, frowning. And then he laughed. �Ha! I guess I�ll just keep you along with us until we get to Kalau. Then I�ll lend you enough money to get back to the States. By that time you�ll have had a chance to think that gentleman over a little more. �Don�t talk to me like that,� fired up Ardita. �I won�t tolerate the parental attitude from anybody. Do you understand me?� He chuckled, and then stopped, rather abashed, as her cold anger seemed to fold him about and chill him. �I�m sorry� he offered, �uncertainly.� �Oh, don�t apologize.  A pause which Carlisle found rather awkward, but which Ardita seemed not to notice at all as she sat contentedly enjoying her cigarette and gazing out at the shining sea. After a minute she crawled out on the rock and lay with her face over the edge looking down. Carlisle, watching her, reflected how it seemed impossible for her to assume an ungraceful attitude. �Oh, look� she cried. �There�s a lot of sort of ledges down there. White ones! Of all different heights. �We�ll go swimming tonight� she said excitedly, �by moonlight.� Wouldn�t you rather go in at the beach, on the other end? �Not a chance. I like to dive. You can use my uncle�s bathing suit. Only it�ll fit you like a gunny sack, because he�s a very flabby man. I�ve got a one-piece that shocked the natives all along the Atlantic coast from Bidaford Pool to St. Augustine. �I suppose you�re a shark. �Yes, I�m pretty good, and I look cute, too. A sculptor up at Rye last summer told me my calves are worth five hundred dollars. �There didn�t seem to be any answer to this,� so Carlisle was silent, permitting himself only a discreet, interior smile. When the night crept down in shadowy blue and silver, they threaded the shimmering channel in the rowboat and tying it to a jetting rock began climbing the cliff together. The first shelf was ten feet up, wide, and furnishing a natural diving platform. There they sat down in the bright moonlight and watched the faint incessant surge of the waters almost still now, as the tide set seaward. �Are you happy?� he asked suddenly. She nodded. �Always happy near the sea.  We�re both rebels, only for different reasons. Two years ago, when I was just eighteen, and you were twenty-five. �Well, we were both conventional successes. I was an utterly devastating debutante, and you were a prosperous musician, just commissioned in the Army.� �Gentlemen, by act of Congress,� he put in, ironically. �Well, at any rate, we both fitted. If our corners were not rubbed off, they were at least pulled in. But deep in us both was something that made us require more for happiness. I didn�t know what I wanted. I went from man to man, restless, impatient, month by month, getting less acquiescent, and more satisfied. I used to sit sometimes, chewing at the insides of my mouth, and thinking I was going crazy. I had a frightful sense of transiency. I wanted things now, now, now. Here I was. Beautiful. I am, aren�t I? �Yes� agreed Carlisle tentatively. Our data rose suddenly. �Wait a second. I want to try this delightful looking sea.� She walked to the end of the ledge, and shot out over the sea, doubling up in mid-air, and then straightening out, and entering to water, straight as a blade, and a perfect jackknife dive. In a minute her voice floated up to him. �You see, I used to read all day and most of the night. I began to resent society. �Come on up here� he interrupted. �What on earth are you doing?� Just floating round on my back. �I�ll be up in a minute. Let me tell you. The only thing I enjoyed was shocking people, wearing something quite impossible and quite charming, to a fancy, dressed party, going round with the fastest men in New York, and getting into some of the most hellish scrapes imaginable. The sounds of splashing mingled with her words, and then he heard hurried breathing, as she began climbing upside to the ledge. �Go on in� she called. Obediently he rose and dived. When he emerged, dripping, and made the climb, he found that she was no longer on the ledge, but after a frightened moment he heard her light laughter from another shelf ten feet up. There he joined her, and they both sat quietly for a moment. Their arms clasped round their knees, panting a little from the climb. �The family were wild� she said suddenly. �They tried to marry me off, and then when I began to feel that after all, life was scarcely worth living, I found something� her eyes went skyward exultantly. �I found something� Carlisle waited, and her words came with a rush. Courage, just that, courage as a rule of life, and something to cling to always, I began to build up this enormous faith in myself. I began to see that in all my idols in the past time some manifestation of courage had unconsciously been the thing that attracted me. I began separating courage from the other things of life. All sorts of courage.  I used to make men take me to prize fights. That the class A woman sailing through a nest of cats, and looking at them as if they were mud on her feet. �The liking, what you like always, the utter disregard for other people�s opinions, just to live as I liked, always, and to die in my own way. �Did you bring up the cigarettes?� He handed one over, and held a match for her, gently. �Still� our data continued, �the men kept gathering, old men, and young men, my mental and physical inferiors, most of them, but all intensely desiring to have me, to own this rather magnificent, proud tradition I�d built up around me. �Do you see?� Sort of. �You never were beaten, and you never apologized.� �Never.� She sprang to the edge, poised for a moment like a crucified figure against the sky, then, describing a dark parabola, plunked without a slash, between two silver ripples twenty feet below. Her voice floated up to him again. �Encouraged to me, met plowing through that dull gray mist that comes down on life, not only overriding people in circumstances, but overriding the bleakness of living, a sort of insistence on the value of life and the worth of transient things. She was climbing up now, and at her last words, her head, with the damp yellow hairs, slicked symmetrically back, appeared on his level. �All very well� objected Carlisle. �You can call it courage, but your courage is really built, after all, on a pride of birth. You were bred to that defiant attitude. On my gray days even courage is one of the things that�s gray and lifeless. She was sitting near the edge, hugging her knees, and gazing abstractly at the white moon. He was farther back, crammed like a grotesque God into a niche in the rock. �I don�t want to sound like Pollyanna� she began. �But you haven�t grasped me yet. My courage is faith, faith in the eternal resilience of me, that joy will come back, and hope, and spontaneity, and I feel that till it does I�ve got to keep my lips shut, and my chin high, and my eyes wide, not necessarily any silly smiling. �Oh, I�ve been through hell, without a wine, quite often, and the female hell is deadlier than the male.� �But suppose� suggested Carlisle, �that before joy and hope, and all that came back, the curtain was drawn on you for good.� Our data rose, and going to the wall climbed with some difficulty to the next ledge, another ten or fifteen feet above. �Why?� she called back. �Then I�d have won.� He edged out till he could see her. �Better not die from there. You�ll break your back� he said quickly. She laughed. �Not I.� Slowly she spread her arms, and stood there, swan-like, radiating a pride in her young perfection, that lit a warm glow in Carlisle�s heart. �We�re going through the black air with our arms wide, and our feet straight out behind, like a dolphin�s tail, and we�re going to think, �We�ll never hit the silver down there, till suddenly it�ll be all warm round us, and full of little kissing, caressing waves.� Then she was in the air, and Carlisle involuntarily held his breath. He had not realized that the dive was nearly forty feet. It seemed an eternity before he heard the swift, compact sound as she reached the sea. And it was with his glad sigh of relief, when her light, watery laughter curled up the side of the cliff, and into his anxious ears, that he knew he loved her. End of Part 5. The Offshore Pirate. Part 6. Reading by Bologna Times. Time, having no axe to grind, showered down upon them three days of afternoons. When the sun cleared the porthole of Ardita�s cabin an hour after dawn, she rose cheerily, donned her bathing suit, and went up on deck. The Negroes would leave their work when they saw her, and crowd, chuckling and chattering, to the rail as she floated an agile minnow on and under the surface of the clear water. Again in the cool of the afternoon she would swim, and lull and smoke with Carlisle upon the cliff, or else they would lie on their sides in the sands of the southern beach, talking little, but watching the day fade colorfully and tragically into the infinite langer of a tropical evening. And with the long sunny hours, Ardita�s idea of the episode, as incidental, madcap, a sprig of romance and a desert of reality, gradually left her. She dreaded the time when he would strike off southward. She dreaded all the eventualities that presented themselves to her. Thoughts were suddenly troublesome, and decisions odious. Had prayers found place in the pagan rituals of her soul, she would have asked of life only to be unmolested for a while, lazily acquiescent to the ready, knife flow of Carlisle�s ideas, his vivid boyish imagination, and the vein of monomania that seemed to run crosswise through his temperament and colored his every action. But this is not a story of two on an island, not concerned primarily with love bred of isolation. It is merely the presentation of two personalities, and its idyllic setting among the palms of the Gulf Stream is quite incidental. Most of us are content to exist and breed and fight for the right to do both, and the dominant idea, the foredoomed attest to control one's destiny, is reserved for the fortunate or unfortunate few. To me the interesting thing about Ardita is the courage that will tarnish with her beauty and youth. �Take me with you�, she said late one night, as they sat lazily in the grass under the shadowy, spreading palms. The negros had brought ashore their musical instruments, and the sound of weird ragtime was drifting softly over on the warm breath of the night. �I�d love to reappear in ten years as a fabulously wealthy high-caste Indian lady� she continued. Carlisle looked at her quickly. �You can�, you know�, she laughed. �Is it a proposal of marriage? Extra�, Ardita Farnam becomes Pirate�s bride, society girl kidnapped by a ragtime bank robber�. It wasn�t a bank. �What was it? Why won�t you tell me? �I don�t want to break down your illusions. �My dear man, I have no illusions about you. �I mean your illusions about yourself�, she looked up in surprise. �About myself? What on earth have I got to do with whatever stray felonies you�ve committed? That remains to be seen�. She reached over and patted his hand. �Dear Mr. Curtis Carlisle�, she said softly. �Are you in love with me?� As if it mattered. �But it does, because I think I�m in love with you�. He looked at her, ironically. �Thus swelling your January total to half a dozen�, he suggested. �Suppose I call your bluff and ask you to come to India with me.� �Shall I?� he shrugged his shoulders. �We can get married in Kalloh. What sort of life can you offer me? I don�t mean that unkindly, but seriously. What would become of me if the people who want that twenty thousand-dollar reward ever catch up with you?� �I thought you weren�t afraid. �I never am, but I won�t throw my life away just to show one man I�m not.� �I wish you�d been poor, just a little poor girl dreaming over a fence in a warm Kall country. Wouldn�t it have been nice?� �I�d have enjoyed astonishing you, watching your eyes open on things. If you only wanted things, don�t you see? I know, like girls who stare into the windows of jewelry stores.� �Yes, and want the big oblong watch that�s platinum and has diamonds all round the edge.  Then I�d say, �Expensive?� I should say not. And we go into the store and pretty soon the platinum one would be gleaming on your wrist. �That sounds so nice and vulgar and fun, doesn�t it?� murmured Ardita. �Doesn�t it? Can�t you see us traveling round and spending money right and left and being worshipped by bellboys and waders?� �Oh, blessed are the simple rich, for they inherit the earth.� �I honestly wish we were that way. �I love you, Ardita�� he said gently.  In fact� Curtis Carlisle, �I like all the things you do when you�re perfectly natural. I think you�ve got nerve, and you know how I feel about that.  Perhaps if I were just a little bit older and a little more bored, I�d go with you. As it is, I think I�ll go back and marry that other man.� Over across the Silver Lake the figures of the Negroes writhed and squirmed in the moonlight like acrobats who, having been too long and active, must go through their tax from sheer surplus energy. In a single file they marched, weaving in concentric circles, now with their heads thrown back, now bent over their instruments like piping fawns, and from trombone and saxophones ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death dance from the Congo�s heart. �Let�s dance!� cried Ardita. �I can�t sit still with that perfect jazz going on.� Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exalted and wavered and disbared, Ardita�s last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer sense of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost and a land created by her own fancy. �This is what I should call an exclusive private dance� he whispered. �I feel quite mad, but delightfully mad.� We�re enchanted. The shades of unnumbered generations of cannibals are watching us from high up on the side of the cliff there. And I�ll bet the cannibal women are saying that we danced too close and that it was immodest of me to come without my nose-ring. They both laughed softly, and then their laughter died as over across the lake they heard the trombones stop in the middle of a bar, and the saxophones give a startled moan and fade out. �What�s the matter?� called Carlisle. After a moment�s silence they made out the dark figure of a man rounding the Silver Lake at a run. As he came closer they saw it was Babe in a state of unusual excitement. He drew up before them and gasped out his nose in a breath. �Ship�s standing off-show about half a mile, sir. �Mose, he is on the watch. He say� looks as she done, anchored. �A ship?� �What kind of ship?� demanded Carlisle anxiously. This may was in his voice, and Ardita�s heart gave a sudden wrench as she saw his whole face suddenly droop. �He say� he don�t know, sir. �Are they landing a boat?� �No, sir.� �We�ll go up� said Carlisle. They ascended the hill in silence. Ardita�s hands still resting in Carlisle�s as it had when they finished dancing. She felt it clench nervously from time to time as though he were unaware of the contact, but though he hurt her she made no attempt to remove it. It seemed an hour�s climb before they reached the top and crept cautiously across the silhouetted plateau to the edge of the cliff. After one short look Carlisle involuntarily gave a little cry. It was a revenue boat, with six-inch guns mounted for and aft. �They know� he said with a short intake of breath. �They know. They picked up the trail somewhere.� �Are you sure they know about the channel?� �They may be only standing by to take a look at the island in the morning. From where they are they couldn�t see the opening in the cliff. �They could with field glasses� he said hopelessly. He looked at his wristwatch. �It�s nearly two now. They won�t do anything until dawn. That�s certain. Of course there�s always the faint possibility that they are waiting for some other ship to join, or for a coler. �I suppose we may as well stay right here.� The hour passed, and they lay there side by side very silently, their chins in their hands, like dreaming children. In back of them squattered the Negroes, patient, resigned, acquiescent, announcing now and then with sonorous sonores that not even the presence of danger could subdue their unconquerable African craving for sleep. Just before five o�clock, Babe approached Carlisle. �There were half a dozen rifles aboard the Narcissus,� he said. �Had it been decided to offer no resistance?� �A pretty good fight might be made,� he thought, if they worked out some plan. Carlisle laughed and shook his head. �That isn�t a spic army out there, Babe. That�s a revenue boat. It�d be like a bow and arrow trying to fight a machine gun. If you want to bury those bags somewhere and take a chance on recovering them later, go on and do it. But it won�t work. They�d dig the silent over from one end to the other. It�s a lost battle, all round, Babe. Babe inclined his head silently and turned away, and Carlisle�s voice was husky as he turned to our data. �There�s the best friend I ever had. He�d die for me, and be proud to, if I�d let him. �You�ve given up?� �I�ve no choice. Of course, there�s always one way out. There�s sure way. But that can wait. I wouldn�t miss my trial for anything. It�ll be an interesting experiment and notoriety. Miss Farnham testifies that the pirate�s attitude to her was at all times that of a gentleman. �Don�t� she said. �I�m awfully sorry.� When the color faded from the sky and the lusterless blue changed to the leaden gray, a commotion was visible on the ship�s deck, and they made out a group of officers clad in white duck, gathered near the rail. They had field-glasses in their hands, and were attentively examining the islet. �It�s all up� said Carlisle, grimly. �Damn� whispered Ardita.  Then, pale and weary, they sank into the settees and waited. Half an hour later, in the dim gray light, the nose of the revenue boat appeared in the channel and stopped, evidently fearing that the bay might be too shallow. From the peaceful look of the yacht, the man and the girl in the settees and the Negroes lounging curiously against the rail, they evidently judged that there would be no resistance. For two boats were lowered casually over the side, one containing an officer and six blue jackets, and the other four rowers, and in the stern two gray-haired men and yachting flannels. Ardita and Carlisle stood up, and half unconsciously started toward each other. Then he paused and putting his hand suddenly into his pocket. He pulled out a round, glittering object, and held it out to her. �What is it?� she asked, wonderingly. �I�m not positive, but I think from the Russian inscription inside that it�s your promised bracelet. �Where? Where on earth?� it came out of one of those bags, you see. Curtis Carlisle and his six black buddies, in the middle of their performance in the tea-room of the hotel at Palm Beach, suddenly changed their instruments for automatics and held up the crowd. I took this bracelet from a pretty overroged woman with red hair. Ardita frowned and then smiled. �So that�s what you did. You�ve got nerve� he bowed. �A well-known bourgeois quality� he said. And then Don slanted dynamically across the deck and flung the shadows reeling into gray corners. The dew rose and turned to golden mist, then as a dream, enveloping them until they had seemed gossamer relics of the late night, infinitely transient, and already fading. For a moment, sea and sky were breathless, and Don held a pink hand over the young mouth of life. Then from out in the lake came the complaint of a rowboat and the swish of oars. Suddenly against the golden furnace, low in the east, their two graceful figures melted into one, and he was kissing her spoiled young mouth. �It�s a sort of glory� he murmured after a second. She smiled up at him. �Happy are you?� her sigh was a benediction, an ecstatic surety that she was youth and beauty now as much as she would ever know. For another instant life was radiant and time a-found him and their strength eternal. Then there was a bumping, scraping sound as the rowboat scraped alongside. Up the ladder scrambled the two gray-haired men, the officer and two of the sailors with their hands on their revolvers. Mr. Farnham folded his arms and stood looking at his nace. �So� he said, nodding his head slowly. With a sigh her arms unwound from Carlile�s neck, and her eyes, transfigured and far away, fell upon the boarding-party. Her uncle saw her upper lip slowly swell into that arrogant pout he knew so well. �So� he repeated savagely, �So this is your idea of romance, a runaway affair, with a high-ceased pirate.� Ardita glanced at him carelessly. �What an old fool you are� she said quietly. �Is that the best you can say for yourself? �No� she said as if considering. �No, there�s something else. There�s that well-known phrase with which I have ended most of our conversations for the past few years. �Shut up� and with that she turned, included the two old men, the officer and the two sailors, and a curt glance of contempt, and walked proudly down the companion way. But had she waited an instant longer she would have heard a sound from her uncle, quite unfamiliar in most of their interviews. He gave vent to a whole-hearted, amused chuckle in which the second old man joined. The latter turned briskly to Carlile, who had been regarding the scene with an air of cryptic amusement. �Well, Toby� he said genuinely. �You incurable, hair-brain, romantic chaser of rainbows. Did you find that she was the person you wanted?� Carlile smiled confidently. �Why, naturally� he said. �I�ve been perfectly sure ever since I first heard tell of her wild career. That is why I had bad to send up the rocket last night. �I�m glad you did� said Colonel Morlin gravely. �We�ve been keeping pretty close to you in case you should have trouble with those six strange niggers, and we hoped we�d find you too in some such compromising position� he said. �Well, set a crank to catch a crank.� Your father and I sat up all night hoping for the best, or perhaps it�s the worst. Lord Norsey, you�re welcome to her, my boy. She�s run me crazy. Did you give her the Russian bracelet my detective got from that Mimee woman? Carlile nodded. �Shh!� he said. �She�s coming on deck. Ardita appeared at the head of the companion way and gave a quick involuntary glance at Carlile�s wrists. A puzzled look passed across her face.  She swayed a step toward him. �Ardita� he repeated breathlessly. �I�ve got to tell you the truth. It was all a plant�. �Ardita�. �My name isn�t Carlile. It�s Morland. Toby Morland. The story was invented, Ardita, invented out of thin Florida air. She stared at him, bewildered, amazement, disbelief, and anger flowing in quick waves across her face. The three men held their breaths. Morland, senior, took a step toward her. Mr. Farnham�s mouth dropped a little open as he waited panic stricken for the expected crash. But it did not come. Ardita�s face became suddenly radiant, and with a little laugh she went swiftly to young Morland and looked up at him without a trace of wrath in her gray eyes. �Will you swear� she said quietly �that it was entirely a product of your own brain?� �I swear� said young Morland eagerly. She drew his head down and kissed him gently. �What an imagination� she said softly and almost enviously. �I want you to lie to me just as sweetly as you know how, for the rest of my life.� The negro�s voices floated drowsily back, mingled in an air that she heard them singing before. �Time is a thief�, gladness and grief, cling to the leaf as it yellows. �What was in the bags?� she asked softly. �Florida mud� he answered. �That was one of the two true things I told you.� �Perhaps I can guess the other one� she said, and reaching up on her tiptoes, kissed him softly in the illustration. End of Part 6 End of The Offshore Pirate by F. Scott Fitzgerald


So, if you've been tuning into this program for a while now, you already likely know that capitalism is decreasing in its popularity. And I think that there are a plethora of reasons as to why that's the case. I mean, it has completely failed and it has brought society to the brink of extinction. So, how can you be a young person strapped with student debt, unable to purchase a car or pay for rents and support this economic system that put you in this predicament? I mean, the answer is you can't. So, I mean, it's not necessarily surprising to think that younger people disapprove of capitalism and are, you know, more supportive of socialism in higher numbers. But this poll really is shocking to me because even people who I wouldn't necessarily expect to lose faith in capitalism are. And look, young people are driving this change on both sides of the political aisle. So, let's talk about this poll. Laura Ronsky of SurveyMonkey writes, A majority of Americans continue to have a more positive than negative view of capitalism with 57% in a new poll from Axios and Momentov, saying they have a positive view and 36% saying they have a negative view, a slight narrowing from the 61 to 36 split in January of 2019. But young adults' perceptions of capitalism have been the real driver of top-line change in the past two years. Today, 18 to 34-year-olds are almost evenly split between those who view capitalism positively and those who view it negatively, 49% versus 46%. Two years ago, that margin was agaping 20 points, 58% versus 38%. By contrast, views among adults ages 35 and older haven't budged with wide margins of 35 to 64-year-olds and 65 plus, saying they view capitalism in a positive light. Among adults in Gen Z, ages 18 to 24, perceptions of capitalism are truly underwater, 42% have a positive view and 54% have a negative view. And more specifically, young Republicans have seen real movement in the past two years. In 2019, 81% of Republicans and GOP leaners age 18 to 34 had a positive view of capitalism. Today, that number has fallen to 66%. Wow. Among Republicans 35 and older views haven't shifted as substantially. While perceptions of capitalism have changed rapidly among young adults, perceptions of socialism have changed more incrementally among all age groups. Slightly fewer young adults now than in 2019 say they have a positive view of socialism. 51% now versus 55% in 2019. But that dip is offset by slight increases in the number of adults ages 35 to 64 and 65 plus, who say they have a favorable view of socialism. Overall, perceptions of socialism are still underwater nationally, with 41% of Americans saying they have a positive view and 52% saying they have a negative view. There's a lot about this poll that is surprising to me, pleasantly so. But two findings in particular really stood out to me. The first is that when it comes to Gen Z, capitalism is just, it's a goner. And what this tells me is that we are on the cusp of a paradigm shift in the United States. 54% of Gen Z 18 to 24 year olds have a negative view of capitalism compared to 42% who have a positive view of capitalism. That means that when this generation takes power, their view of capitalism is going to drive policy in the United States in a substantially different direction. And that's not to say that we're going to see some sort of like socialist or communist revolution. Of course, that's not the case. A lot of these folks are probably social democrats. But the fact that capitalism in their view has such a negative view, that's really important to me because it's never been acceptable in the United States of America up until recently to really question capitalism. And we haven't seen anti-capitalist sentiment until recently. But it seems as if anti-capitalist sentiment is really growing exponentially because capitalism is failing to meet even the most basic needs of American people. But you know, that to me, like knowing that young people are more open to socialism than capitalism, that's not necessarily what's surprising to me. What is truly shocking to me is the fact that young Republicans have seen real movement in the past two years, according to this poll. So two years ago, 81% of Republicans and GOP leaners had a positive view of capitalism. But today, that number has fallen to 66%. That folks is very, very interesting to me because if you are a Republican, their entire ideology is neoliberalism. It's market-based solutions to public problems, you know, the privatization of public issues. So I don't even know why you'd identify as a Republican if you have a negative view of capitalism. I mean, that's not to say that most Democrats are, you know, pro-socialism. Of course, that's not the case. You have a couple of social Democrats who are very vocal. But the majority of Democrats are, you know, neoliberal as well. But it's odd to me that even young Republicans have a negative view of capitalism to that extent. Now, I would like to pick the brains of these folks. Why are you a Republican if you have a negative view of capitalism? I mean, is it that you rank other issues higher on your scale of priorities? Do you think that social conservatism is more important than economic conservatism? Is it that, you know, you actually, you think capitalism is bad, but the GOP pushing for a wall in particular, that's the most important issue or your anti-immigrant? Like I really want to know because this is truly weird. And I do think it's the case that we are on the cusp of political realignment in the United States of America. I don't know what that's going to look like. Hopefully it doesn't end up worse than it is right now. But either way, something in America is happening. Things are changing rapidly. And very clearly capitalism is failing to meet the needs of many and approval for capitalism is dropping and approval for socialism is increasing. So to me, as someone who is a socialist, I think this is good news. But, you know, it's, you know, we'll have to wait and see how views continue to shift. Because trust me, folks, this might look good right now, but there's nothing a little bit of propaganda can do to change people's hearts and minds. So, you know, this is a really good positive development for me as someone who is an anti-capitalist, but we'll have to wait and see. But man, this next election that's coming up in, you know, 2024, primarily the presidential election, which is when most young people pay attention, it's going to be really interesting to see what happens there. Right. I mean, well, perhaps not necessarily 2024, because assuming Biden is, you know, the Democratic Party's nominee, like what the Democratic Party puts up, you know, if moderates are going to be able to skate through as they did, you know, I mean, they didn't necessarily skate through super easily in 2020, but if they're going to be able to get away with making neoliberal arguments when it comes to healthcare and hawkish arguments when it comes to foreign policy, if so many people now are identifying as socialists. And that's not to say that, you know, you can't be socialist and be in agreement with Biden on foreign policy. I think that would be a little bit weird.  But basically what I'm trying to say is that, like, as presumably the Democratic Party electorate younger people, as more of them become eligible to vote and they shift to the left, like, how is the Democratic Party going to respond to that? It's going to be really, really fascinating to see. But I would imagine that if Biden really doesn't deliver, then we're going to see another situation, like we saw in 2016, where people are hungry, especially young people, for a really strong change-making candidate. So, look, I'm babbling at this point, but long story short, this is phenomenal news, and I find this just incredibly fascinating.


It is a playful process that there aren't too many rules. I guess the rule is to make them as messy and as chaotic as possible, to counter the slickness of the data that I'm getting on my phone. All those apps that measure how many steps we've taken in a day, how many kilometres I've run or all of that quantifying of our efforts to either become healthier or lose weight. The drawings, they don't clarify anything. They communicate the messiness of being a body and a mind combined. My name's Shareen Fard. I am Associate Professor in Visual Communication in the Faculty of Design, Architecture and Building at UTS. So I've been running for about two years. A friend coached me to start at the beginning of the first COVID lockdown. And part of running was recording those runs through Strava, which is an exercise app. I started to change my runs in order to affect the line, the GPS line. When I thought about how I could actually try to capture those really banal everyday things in the data when I get home from my run, I will often print out, I'll take a screen grab of my Strava data.  And I just trace the line, the GPS line. And then it's a process of looking at the Strava data at the graphs and again kind of transcribing the graph. It documents my split pace. So it'll tell me in this kilometer, you ran this kilometer in six minutes. So I will often take those graphs and not identify them by the time, but rather by a thought, a feeling, an observation. They're kind of spontaneous drawings, lots of squiggly lines, they're messy. The longer runs, so anything that, you know, 10 kilometers and over, they produce the more interesting drawings because there's a lot more information and a lot more sensation to capture. The taking of the data and then giving it another purpose, you know, through the drawings is interesting as a method. We play so much emphasis on things like speed, like performance and doing better and improving and getting healthier and getting stronger and losing weight. Everything that's part of this idea of well-being, doing something that doesn't necessarily achieve a result, whether it be in the sense of performance or self-improvement or financial gain. Drawing is just an end in itself because it feels good to draw, it feels good to run. They're these kind of activities that we just do for the sake of doing them.