_Humiliation_


"My own view is," I began, but no one listened. At the next
pause, "I always say," I remarked, but again the loud talk went
on. Someone told a story. When the laughter had ended, "I often
think--"; but looking round the table I could catch no friendly
or attentive eye. It was humiliating, but more humiliating the
thought that Sophocles and Goethe would have always commanded
attention, while the lack of it would not have troubled Spinoza
or Abraham Lincoln.




_Green Ivory_


What a bore it is, waking up in the morning always the same
person. I wish I were unflinching and emphatic, and had big,
bushy eyebrows and a Message for the Age. I wish I were a deep
Thinker, or a great Ventriloquist.

I should like to be refined and melancholy, the victim of a
hopeless passion; to love in the old, stilted way, with
impossible Adoration and Despair under the pale-faced Moon.

I wish I could get up; I wish I were the world's greatest
Violinist. I wish I had lots of silver, and first Editions, and
green ivory.