box of throat-lozenges. It is all humbug and all human wretchedness. And it drags on, piecemeal, through any average human life. It is all squalid, vulgar, insincere, selfish, ugly and full of human wretchedness. You think me a pessimist? Far from it. I am an idealist: in my own mind, I see everything in a rosy light. My power of imagination is so strong that I see everything white and gold and blue, like the marble statues of ancient temples, with their blue sky and golden sun. But, when I take leave of my imagination, then I see that everything is human wretchedness: wars; politics; the fat stomach of our friend yonder; the rain; and those pots and pans which you’re wanting for your kitchen. All life, high and low, general and individual, in the masses and in the classes, is squalid, ugly, insincere and full of human wretchedness. Look at that creature over there. What a miserable object: she is knock-kneed; her nose is a yard long; and the reason why she’s in this filthy street is absurd! You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I do. You never see anything beautiful except at the theatre, or in a book, or in a picture or an etching . . . or in a great writer taking up his pen in defence of some outcast, as Zola did. But even then there is very little; and I at once see the human wretchedness through it all: the pose, the affectation—even that of soberness—the ambition to succeed, or to imitate some one or other. No one has a pure thought for purity’s sake . . . except a fellow like Zola. There’s no beauty anywhere. Have you ever no-
