stateliness and substantiality.

My sphere in life is not congenial to me. Oh, how I hate this living
death which has swallowed all my teens, which is greedily devouring my
youth, which will sap my prime, and in which my old age, if I am cursed
with any, will be worn away! As my life creeps on for ever through the
long toil-laden days with its agonizing monotony, narrowness, and
absolute uncongeniality, how my spirit frets and champs its unbreakable
fetters--all in vain!


SPECIAL NOTICE

You can dive into this story head first as it were. Do not fear
encountering such trash as descriptions of beautiful sunsets and
whisperings of wind. We (999 out of every 1000) can see nought in sunsets
save as signs and tokens whether we may expect rain on the morrow or the
contrary, so we will leave such vain and foolish imagining to those poets
and painters--poor fools! Let us rejoice that we are not of their
temperament!

Better be born a slave than a poet, better be born a black, better be
born a cripple! For a poet must be companionless--alone! _fearfully_ alone
in the midst of his fellows whom he loves. Alone because his soul is as
far above common mortals as common mortals are above monkeys.



There is no plot in this story, because there has been none in my life or
in any other life which has come under my notice. I am one of a class,