Ah! that day when he had stepped down from the mowing machine and had
been ensnared by the idea of improving it. Why had he ever taken it
up? Did he need money? No. Or was the work at a standstill? No. But the
steel would on; it had need of a man; it had taken him by the throat and
said, "You shall!"
Happiness? Rest? Ah no! For, you see, a stored-up mass of knowledge and
experience turns one fine day into an army of evil powers, that lash
you on and on, unceasingly. You may stumble, you may fall--what does
it matter? The steel squeezes one man dry, and then grips the next. The
flame of the world has need of fuel--bow thy head, Man, and leap into
the fire.
To-day you prosper--to-morrow you are cast down into a hell on earth.
What matter? You are fuel for the fire.
But I will not, I will not be swallowed up in the flame of the world,
even though it be the only godhead in the universe. I will tear myself
loose, be something in and for myself. I will have an immortal soul.
The world-transformation that progress may have wrought a thousand years
hence--what is it to me?
Your soul? Just think of all your noble feelings towards that true-born
half-brother of yours--ha-ha-ha! Shakespeare was wrong. It's the bastard
that gets cheated.
"Dearest Peer, do, for God's sake, try to get to sleep."
"Oh yes. I'll get to sleep all right. But it's so hot." He threw off the
clothes and lay breathing heavily.
"I'm sure you're lying thinking and brooding over things.
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