I am myself, and I remain myself only by the grave of the powers that
enter me, from the unseen, and make me forever newly myself.
And I am myself, also, by the grace of the desire that flows from me and
consummates me with the other unknown, the invisible, tangible
creation.
The powers that enter me fluctuate and ebb. And the desire that goes
forth from me waxes and wanes. Sometimes it is weak, and I am almost
isolated. Sometimes it is strong, and I am almost carried away.
But supposing the cult of Individualism, Liberty, Freedom, and so forth,
has landed me in the state of egoism, the state so prettily and
nauseously described by Henley in his _Invictus_: which, after all, is
but the yelp of a house-dog, a domesticated creature with an inferiority
complex!
“It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the scroll:
I am the master of my fate!
I am the captain of my soul!”
Are you, old boy? Then why hippety-hop?
He was a cripple at that!
As a matter of fact, it is the slave’s bravado! The modern slave is he
who does not receive his powers from the unseen, and give reverence, but
who thinks he is his own little boss. Only a slave would take the
trouble to shout: “_I am free!_” That is to say, to shout it in the face
of the open heavens. In the face of men, and their institutions and
prisons. Yes-yes! But in the face of the open heavens I would be ashamed
to talk about freedom. I have no life, no real power, unless it will
come to me. And I accomplish nothing, not even my own fulfilled
existence, unless I go forth, delicately, desirous, and find the mating
of my desire; even if it be only the sky itself, and trees, and the cow
Susan, and the inexpressible consolation of a statue of an Egyptian
Pharaoh, or the _Old Testament_, or even three rubies. These answer my
desire with fulfilment. What bunk then to talk about being master of my
fate! when my fate depends upon these things:--not to mention the unseen
reality that sends strength, or life into me, without which I am a gourd
rattle.
The ego, the little conscious ego that I am, that doll-like entity, that
mannikin made in ridiculous likeness of the Adam which I am: am I going
to allow that that is _all of me_? And shout about it?
Of course, if I am nothing but an ego, and woman is nothing but another
ego, then there is really no vital difference between us. Two little
dolls of conscious entities, squeaking when you squeeze them. And with a
tiny bit of an extraneous appendage to mark which is which.
“Woman is just the same as man,” loudly said the political speaker,
“Save for a very little difference.”
“Three cheers for the very little difference!” says a vulgar voice from
the crowd.
But that’s a chestnut.
“Quick! Sharp! On the alert!
Let every gentleman put on his shirt!
And be _quick_ if you please!
Let every lady put on her chemise!”
Though nowadays, a lady’s chemise won’t save her face.
In or out her chemise, however, doesn’t make much difference to the
modern woman. She’s a finished-off ego, an assertive conscious entity,
cut off like a doll from any mystery. And her nudity is about as
interesting as a doll’s. If you can _be_ interested in the nudity of a
doll, then jazz on, jazz on!
The same with the men. No matter how they pull their shirts off they
never arrive at their own nakedness. They have none. They can only be
undressed. Naked they cannot be. Without their clothes on, they are like
a dismantled street-car without its advertisements: sort of public
article that doesn’t refer to anything.
The ego! Anthropomorphism! Love! What it works out to in the end is that
even anthropos disappears, and leaves a sawdust mannikin wondrously
jazzing.
“My little sisters, the birds!” says Francis of Assisi.
“_Whew!_” goes the blackbird.
“Listen to me, my little sisters, you birds!”
“_Whew!_” goes the blackbird. “I’m a cock, mister!”
Love! What’s the good of woman who isn’t desirable, even though she’s as
pretty as paint, and the waves in her hair are as permanent as the
pyramids!
He buried his face in her permanent wave, and cried: “Help! Get me
out!”
Individualism! Read the advertisements! “Jew-jew’s hats give a man that
individual touch he so much desires. No man could lack individuality in
Poppem’s pyjamas.” Poor devil! If he was left to his own skin, where
would he be!
Pop goes the weasel!