Prometheus and a Napoleon." Quell listened to this speech with
indifference. Arved continued:--

"Nor was Nietzsche insane when he went to the asylum. His sanity was
blinding in its brilliancy; he voluntarily renounced the world of
foolish faces and had himself locked away where he would not hear its
foolish clacking. O Silence! gift of the gods, deified by Carlyle in
many volumes and praised by me in many silly words! My good fellow,
society, which is always hypocritical, has to build lunatic asylums in
self-defence. These polite jails keep the world in countenance; they
give it a standard. If _you_ are behind the bars--"

"Speak for yourself," growled Quell.

"Then the world knows that you are crazy and that _it_ is not. There is
no other way of telling the difference. So a conspiracy of fools,
lawyers, and doctors is formed. If you do not live the life of the
stupid: cheat, lie, steal, smirk, eat, dance, and drink--then you are
crazy! That fact agreed upon, the hypocrites, who are quite mad, but
cunning enough to dissemble, lock behind bolted doors those free souls,
the poets, painters, musicians--artistic folk in general. They brand our
gifts with fancy scientific names, such as Megalomania, Paranoia, _Folie
des grandeurs_. Show me a genius and I'll show you a madman--according
to the world's notion."

"There you go again," cried Quell, arising to his knees. "Genius, _I_
believe, is a disease of the nerves; and I don't mind telling you that I
consider poets and musicians quite crazy."

Arved's eyes were blazing blue signals.