ied by the rotary symbol. A wheel is the
sublime paradox; one part of it is always going forward and the other
part always going back. Now this, as it happens, is highly similar to
the proper condition of any human soul or any political state. Every
sane soul or state looks at once backwards and forwards; and even goes
backwards to come on.

For those interested in revolt (as I am) I only say meekly that one
cannot have a Revolution without revolving. The wheel, being a logical
thing, has reference to what is behind as well as what is before. It has
(as every society should have) a part that perpetually leaps helplessly
at the sky and a part that perpetually bows down its head into the dust.
Why should people be so scornful of us who stand on our heads? Bowing
down one's head in the dust is a very good thing, the humble beginning
of all happiness. When we have bowed our heads in the dust for a little
time the happiness comes; and then (leaving our heads' in the humble and
reverent position) we kick up our heels behind in the air. That is
the true origin of standing on one's head; and the ultimate defence
of paradox. The wheel humbles itself to be exalted; only it does it a
little quicker than I do.

Five Hundred and Fifty-five

Life is full of a ceaseless shower of small coincidences: too small to
be worth mentioning except for a special purpose, often too trifling
even to be noticed, any more than we notice one snowflake falling on
another. It is this that lends a frightful plausibility to all false
doctrines and evil fads. There are always such crowds of accidental
arguments for anything. If I said suddenly that historical truth is
generally told by red-haired men, I have no doubt that ten minutes'
reflection (in which I decline to indulge) would provide me with a
handsome list of instances in support of it. I remember a riotous
argument about Bacon and Shakespeare in which I offered quite at random
to show that Lord Rosebery had written the works of Mr. W. B. Yeats. No
sooner had I said the words than a torrent of coincidences rushed upon
my mind. I pointed out, for instance, that Mr. Yeats's chief work was
"The Secret Rose." This may easily be paraphrased as "The Quiet or
Modest Rose"; and so, of course, as the Primrose. A second after I saw
the same suggestion in the combination of "rose" and "bury." If I had
pursued the matter, who knows but I might have been a raving maniac by
this time.

We trip over