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love is a fallacy - lOvE iS a FaLlAcY Cool was I and...

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lOvE iS a FaLlAcY
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Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute --- I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist's scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And - think of it! - I was only eighteen. It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Burch, my roommate at the University of Minnesota. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it - this to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
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One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. "Don't move," I said, "Don't take a laxative. I'll get a doctor."
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"Raccoon," he mumbled thickly. "Raccoon?" I said, pausing in my flight. "I want a raccon coat," he wailed. I perceived that his trouble was not physical but mental. "Why do you want a raccoon coat?"
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"I should have known it," he cried, pounding his temples. "I should have known it they'd come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbook, and now I can't get a raccoon coat." "Can you mean," I said incredulously," that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?"
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"All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where've you been?" "In the library," I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus. He leaped from the bed and paced the room. "I've got to have a raccoon coat," he said passionately. "I've got to!"
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"Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They're unsightly. They..." "You don't understand," he interrupted, impatiently. "It's the thing to do. Don't you want to be in the swim?" "No," I said truthfully. "Well, I do," he declared. "I'd give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!"
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My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. "Anything?" I asked, looking at him narrowly. "Anything," he affirmed in ringing tones. I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn't have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
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I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly For a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
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I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer's career. The successful lawyers I had observed
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