An indolent purposeful step. An unimaginable grace. If you were /her/
lover, my boy, you would learn how fierce love can be, how capricious
and sudden, how hostile, how ecstatic, how violent!

Think what the state of the arts would have been in such cities.

They would have had few comedies on their stage; no farces. Cats
care little for fun. In the circus, superlative acrobats. No clowns.

In drama and singing they would have surpassed us probably. Even
in the state of arrested development as mere animals, in which we
see cats, they wail with a passionate intensity at night in our
yards. Imagine how a Caruso descended from such beings would sing.

In literature they would not have begged for happy endings.

They would have been personally more self-assured than we, far
freer of cheap imitativeness of each other in manners and art, and
hence more original in art; more clearly aware of what they really
desired; not cringingly watchful of what was expected of them; less
widely observant perhaps, more deeply thoughtful.

Their artists would have produced less however, even though they
felt more. A super-cat artist would have valued the pictures he
drew for their effects on himself; he wouldn't have cared a rap
whether anyone else saw them or not. He would not have bothered,
usually, to give any form to his conceptions. Simply to have had
the sensation would have for him been enough. But since simians
love to be noticed, it does not content them to have a conception;
they must wrestle with it until it takes a form in which others