hundred and ninety-nine people out of a thousand reach the age of
sixty before getting the rudiments of it. The majority of us die in
almost complete ignorance of it. And none may be said to master it in
all its exciting branches. Why, you can choose any of your
friends--the wisest of them--and instantly tell him something
glaringly obvious about his own character and actions--and be rewarded
for your trouble by an indignantly sincere denial! You had noticed it;
all his friends had noticed it. But he had not noticed it. Far from
having noticed it, he is convinced that it exists only in your
malicious imagination. For example, go to a friend whose sense of
humour is notoriously imperfect, and say gently to him: "Your sense of
humour is imperfect, my friend," and see how he will receive the
information! So much for the rarity of self-knowledge.

Self-knowledge is difficult because it demands intellectual honesty.
It demands that one shall not blink the facts, that one shall not hide
one's head in the sand, and that one shall not be afraid of anything
that one may happen to see in looking round. It is rare because it
demands that one shall always be able to distinguish between the man
one thinks one ought to be and the man one actually is. And it is rare
because it demands impartial detachment and a certain quality of fine
shamelessness--the shamelessness which confesses openly to oneself and
finds a legitimate pleasure in confessing. By way of compensation for
its difficulty, the pursuit of self-knowledge happens to be one of the
most entrancing of all pursuits, as those who have seriously practised
it are well aware. Its interest is inexhaustible and grows steadily.
Unhappily, the Anglo-Saxon racial temperament is inimical to it. The
Latins like it better. To feel its charm one should listen to a
highly-cultivated Frenchman analysing himself for the benefit of an
intimate companion. Still, even Anglo-Saxons may try it with