angeness_, the danger of its object, the need to
overcome the object. The eye which is not wide open to study, to
_learn_, but which powerfully, proudly or cautiously glances, and
knows the terror or the pure desirability of _strangeness_ in the
object it beholds. The savage is all in all in himself. That which he
sees outside he hardly notices, or, he sees as something odd,
something automatically desirable, something lustfully desirable, or
something dangerous. What we call vision, that he has not.

We must compare the look in a horse's eye with the look in a cow's.
The eye of the cow is soft, velvety, receptive. She stands and gazes
with the strangest intent curiosity. She goes forth from herself in
wonder. The root of her vision is in her yearning breast. The same one
hears when she moos. The same massive weight of passion is in a bull's
breast; the passion to go forth from himself. His strength is in his
breast, his weapons are on his head. The wonder is always outside him.

But the horse's eye is bright and glancing. His curiosity is cautious,
full of terror, or else aggressive and frightening for the object. The
root of his vision is in his belly, in the solar plexus. And he fights
with his teeth, and his heels, the sensual weapons.

Both these animals, however, are established in the sympathetic mode.
The life mode in both is sensitively sympathetic, or preponderantly
sympathetic. Those animals which like cats, wolves, tigers, hawks,
chiefly live from the great voluntary centers, these animals are, in
our sense of the word, almost visionless. Sight in them is sharpened
or narrowed down to a point: the object of prey. It is exclusive.
They see no more than this. And thus they see unthinkably far,
unthinkably keenly.

Most animals, however, smell what they see: vision is not very highly
developed. They know better by the more direct contact of scent.

And vision in us becomes faulty because we proceed too much in one
mode. We see too much, we attend too much. The dark, glancing
sightlessness of the intent savage, the narrowed vision of the cat,
the single point of vision of the hawk--these we do not know any more.
We live far too much from the sympathetic centers, without the balance
from the voluntary mode. And we live far, far too much from the
_upper_ sympathetic center and voluntary center, in an endless
objective curiosity. Sight is the least sensual of all the senses. And
we strain ourselves to see, see