Not Fare Well, But Fare

Most Contemporary Novels Are Not Really "written." They Obtain What Reality They Have Largely From An Accurate Rendering Of The Noises That Human Beings Currently Make In Their Daily Simple Needs Of Communication; And What Part Of A Novel Is Not Composed Of These Noises Consists Of A Prose Which Is No More Alive Than That Of A Competent Newspaper Writer Or Government Official. A Prose That Is Altogether Alive Demands Something Of The Reader That The Ordinary Novel-reader Is Not Prepared To Give.

And Now You Live Dispersed On Ribbon Roads, And No Man Knows Or Cares Who Is His Neighbor Unless His Neighbor Makes Too Much Disturbance, But All Dash To And Fro In Motor Cars, Familiar With The Roads And Settled Nowhere.

Before A Cat Will Condescend To Treat You As A Trusted Friend, Some Little Token Of Esteem Is Needed, Like A Dish Of Cream; And You Might Now And Then Supply Some Caviare, Or Strassburg Pie, Some Potted Grouse, Or Salmon Paste — He's Sure To Have His Personal Taste. (i Know A Cat, Who Makes A Habit Of Eating Nothing Else But Rabbit, And When He's Finished, Licks His Paws So's Not To Waste The Onion Sauce.) A Cat's Entitled To Expect These Evidences Of Respect. And So In Time You Reach Your Aim, And Finally Call Him By His Name.

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?

Simple And Faithless As A Smile And Shake Of The Hand.