Or lips without teeth?”
“I can’t,” he said, “because they would bite off your entire insides.”
They sat there and talked until nightfall, for the wind was biting the trees like they were made of butter. The men were drinking and laughing, and when they had finished, the young men began to sing again. At one point, when they had a new tune in mind, they decided to just use those words that the poets had so much fun with. “I tell it you’re a good fellow,” one of the men said, “but that’s not telling the truth.”
“That’s the truth,” the other man said, “but it’s only a little bit. You say, ‘I’m never gonna hurt a fly, because I hate flies,’ and then you tell me that, but no matter how you feel about the fact, they’re not going to hurt you.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the fact that they’re not your people. They’re not really you.”
“What does that mean?” was all he said. In the end he couldn’t resist: “And I tell it you’re a good fellow because I’m never gonna hurt a fly, because I hate flies. But what about this: what about telling me you’re a good fellow, without hurting a fly? I will tell you that I’ll never hurt a fly!”
The second man said, “If you say that you are a good man on the basis that you will never hurt a fly, I cannot agree with you. It’s not enough to tell me I’m not really you, or that I love flies, but I can’t also do the same kind of thing about somebody who will hurt a fly if the need arises.”
“Who are they?”
“And what kind of a fellow did you hear me telling about when the others said that you are a good man? What good person do you imagine myself be if I don’t hurt a fly on occasion?” The young men laughed heartily, for this was the truth to which they had been waiting years; but the young men who talked a good deal were in that other group, and it was the group that they wished to keep. They couldn’t even imagine the worst—what would they have them say? Would they think that they were good? Or would they think that they were a good liar? They were afraid to open that particular can of worms they had
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