ert; do you think the children are better,
richer, happier, for all this knowledge; do you really think they are?
Or is it better to leave them untouched, spontaneous. Hadn't they
better be animals, simple animals, crude, violent, ANYTHING, rather
than this self-consciousness, this incapacity to be spontaneous.'

They thought she had finished. But with a queer rumbling in her throat
she resumed, 'Hadn't they better be anything than grow up crippled,
crippled in their souls, crippled in their feelings--so thrown back--so
turned back on themselves--incapable--' Hermione clenched her fist like
one in a trance--'of any spontaneous action, always deliberate, always
burdened with choice, never carried away.'

Again they thought she had finished. But just as he was going to reply,
she resumed her queer rhapsody--'never carried away, out of themselves,
always conscious, always self-conscious, always aware of themselves.
Isn't ANYTHING better than this? Better be animals, mere animals with
no mind at all, than this, this NOTHINGNESS--'

'But do you think it is knowledge that makes us unliving and
selfconscious?' he asked irritably.

She opened her eyes and looked at him slowly.

'Yes,' she said. She paused, watching him all the while, her eyes
vague. Then she wiped her fingers across her brow, with a vague
weariness. It irritated him bitterly. 'It is the mind,' she said, 'and
that is death.' She raised her eyes slowly to him: 'Isn't the mind--'
she said, with the convulsed movement of her body, 'isn't it our death?
Doesn't it destroy all our spontaneity, all our instincts? Are not the
young people growing up today, really dead before they have a chance to
live?'

'Not because they have too much mind, but too little,' he said
brutally.

'Are you SURE?' she cried. 'It seems to me the reverse. They are
overconscious, burdened to death with consciousness.'

'Imprisoned within a limited, false set of concepts,' he cried.

But she took no notice of this, only went on with her own rhapsodic
interrogation.

'When we have knowledge, don't we lose everything but knowledge?' she
asked pathetically. 'If I know about the flower, don't I lose the
flower and have only the knowledge? Aren't we exchanging the substance
for the shadow, aren't we forfeiting life for this dead quality of
knowledge? And what does it mean to me, after all? What does all this
knowing mean to me? It means nothing.'

'You are merely making words,' he said;