not one of them.

I look around the room I am writing in--a pleasant room, and my own,
yet how irresponsive, how smug and lifeless! The pattern of the
wallpaper blamelessly repeats itself from wainscote to cornice; and
the pictures are immobile and changeless within their glazed frames--
faint, flat mimicries of life. The chairs and tables are just as their
carpenter fashioned them, and stand with stiff obedience just where
they have been posted. On one side of the room, encased in coverings
of cloth and leather, are myriads of words, which to some people, but
not to me, are a fair substitute for human company. All around me, in
fact, are the products of modern civilisation. But in the whole room
there are but three things living: myself, my dog, and the fire in my
grate. And of these lives the third is very much the most intensely
vivid. My dog is descended, doubtless, from prehistoric wolves; but
you could hardly decipher his pedigree on his mild, domesticated face.
My dog is as tame as his master (in whose veins flows the blood of the
old cavemen). But time has not tamed fire. Fire is as wild a thing as
when Prometheus snatched it from the empyrean. Fire in my grate is as
fierce and terrible a thing as when it was lit by my ancestors, night
after night, at the mouths of their caves, to scare away the ancestors
of my dog. And my dog regards it with the old wonder and misgiving.
Even in his sleep he opens ever and again one eye to see that we are
in no danger. And the fire glowers and roars through its bars at him
with the scorn that a wild beast must needs have for a tame one. `You
are free,' it rages, `and yet you do not spring at that man's throat
and tear him limb from limb and make a meal of him! `and, gazing at
me, it licks its red lips; and I, laughing good-humouredly, rise and
give the monster a shovelful of its proper food, which it leaps at and
noisily devours.