blood; but we moderns dip our pen into the sap of our nerves. We analyse life, love art — and the dissecting knife that we use on other men’s souls finally turns against ourselves.

“But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created things? Animals, too, think. Some walk on two legs. But introspection differentiates man from the rest. Shall we yield up the sweet consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion, for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or the healthful stupidity of a mule?”

“Assuredly not.”

“But what shall a man do?”

“Ah, that I