Frank Frink Character Analysis

Hating the Japs as he did, he had vowed revenge; he had buried his Service weapons ten feet underground in a basement, well-wrapped and oiled, for the day he and his buddies arose. However, time was the great healer, a fact he had not taken into account […] since 1947 he had probably seen or talked to six hundred thousand Japanese, and the desire to do violence to any or all of them had simply never materialized. It just was not relevant any more.

Oy gewalt! he thought. What’s happening? Did I start it in motion? Or is someone else tinkering someone I don’t even know? Or - the whole lot of us. It’s the fault of those physicists and that synchronicity theory every particle being connected with every other; you can’t fart without changing the balance in the universe […] I should take my tools, get my motors from McCarthy, open my shop, start my piddling business, go on despite the horrible line. Be working, creating in my own way right up to the end, living as best I can, as actively as possible […] I’m too small, he thought, I can only read what’s written, glance up and then lower my head and plod along where I left off.

Listen, I’m not an intellectual—Fascism has no need of that. What is wanted is the deed. Theory derives from action. What our corporate state demands from us is comprehension of the social forces—of history. You see? I tell you; I know, Juliana.

As they searched for a good hotel, Juliana kept glancing at the man beside her. With his hair short and blond, and in his new clothes, he doesn’t look like the same person, she thought. Do I like him better this way? It was hard to tell. And me—when I’ve been able to arrange for my hair being done, we’ll be two different persons, almost. Created out of nothing or, rather, out of money. But I just must get my hair done, she told herself.

Laying his coat over a chair, Frank collected a handful of half-completed silver segments and carried them to the arbor. He screwed a wool buffing wheel onto the spindle, started up the motor; he dressed the wheel with bobbing compound, put on the mask to protect his eyes, and then seated on a stool began removing the fire scale from the segments, one by one.

Hating the Japs as he did, he had vowed revenge; he had buried his Service weapons ten feet underground in a basement, well-wrapped and oiled, for the day he and his buddies arose. However, time was the great healer, a fact he had not taken into account […] since 1947 he had probably seen or talked to six hundred thousand Japanese, and the desire to do violence to any or all of them had simply never materialized. It just was not relevant any more.

Oy gewalt! he thought. What’s happening? Did I start it in motion? Or is someone else tinkering someone I don’t even know? Or - the whole lot of us. It’s the fault of those physicists and that synchronicity theory every particle being connected with every other; you can’t fart without changing the balance in the universe […] I should take my tools, get my motors from McCarthy, open my shop, start my piddling business, go on despite the horrible line. Be working, creating in my own way right up to the end, living as best I can, as actively as possible […] I’m too small, he thought, I can only read what’s written, glance up and then lower my head and plod along where I left off.

Listen, I’m not an intellectual—Fascism has no need of that. What is wanted is the deed. Theory derives from action. What our corporate state demands from us is comprehension of the social forces—of history. You see? I tell you; I know, Juliana.

As they searched for a good hotel, Juliana kept glancing at the man beside her. With his hair short and blond, and in his new clothes, he doesn’t look like the same person, she thought. Do I like him better this way? It was hard to tell. And me—when I’ve been able to arrange for my hair being done, we’ll be two different persons, almost. Created out of nothing or, rather, out of money. But I just must get my hair done, she told herself.

Laying his coat over a chair, Frank collected a handful of half-completed silver segments and carried them to the arbor. He screwed a wool buffing wheel onto the spindle, started up the motor; he dressed the wheel with bobbing compound, put on the mask to protect his eyes, and then seated on a stool began removing the fire scale from the segments, one by one.