You do not seem to realise that beauty is a liability rather than
an asset—that in view of the fact that spirit creates form we are
justified in supposing
that you must have brains. For you, a symbol of the unit, stiff
and sharp, conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority
and liking for everything self-dependent, anything an
ambitious civilisation might produce: for you, unaided to attempt
through sheer reserve, to confute presumptions resulting from
observation, is idle. You cannot make us
think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are
brilliant, it is not because your petals are the
without-which-nothing of pre-eminence.
You would look, minus
thorns—like a what-is-this, a mere
peculiarity. They are not proof against a worm, the elements, or
mildew but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance
without co-ordination? Guarding the
infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to
the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be remembered
too violently,
your thorns are the best part of you.