h his drunkenness causes to innocent people should be punished, or
prevented. The helpless must always suffer for the selfishness of other
people--that is one of the "divine" laws of civilisation. The liberty of
the subject is not only a farce, but a crime, when the liberty
jeopardises the lives of the minority. The liberty to harm others will
be a "liberty" punishable by law in the state which is anything more than
democratic, except as a political catchword.

_One of the Minor Tragedies_

One of the minor tragedies of life (or is it one of the _major_?) is the
way we grow out of things--often against our will, sometimes against our
better judgment. I don't mean only that we grow out of clothes--that,
after all, is nothing very serious, unless you have no younger brother to
whom to hand them on; but we also grow out of desires, out of books, out
of pictures, out of places, friendships, even love itself--oh, yes, most
often out of love itself. You never seem to be able to say to yourself
and the world: "There! this is what I yearn for; this is what I desire;
this is what I adore; this is what I shall never tire of--shall always
appreciate, to which I shall always show my devotion." Or rather, you
_do_ say this in all sincerity _at the moment_. Only the passing of time
shows you that you were wrong. You seem to grow out of everything which
is within your reach, and are only faithful to those things which have
just eluded your grasp. It is human nature, I suppose; but it is a
dreadful bore, all the same! It would seem as if the brain could not
stand the same mental impression for very long; it becomes wearied,
eventually seeking to throw off the impression altogether. They tell us
that everything we do, or hear, or say--every thought, in fact--is
photographed, as it were, on the brain as a definite picture. And if
this be true, the same impression must affect the same part of the
brain--that part of the brain which becomes tired of this same impress,
until it eventually seeks to throw it off as the body throws off disease.
Take a very simple instance--that of a popular song. Experience has
taught you to realise that, although the melody haunts you deliciously at
first, you will eventually grow to hate it, and the tune which once sent
you swaying to its rhythm will at last bore you to the point of
anaesthesia. I often wonder why that is so? The answer must be
physical, since the melody is just the same