like dust into
your eyes and grit between your teeth, instead of like music into your
ears. I am I, but also you are you, and we are in sad need of a theory
of human relativity. We need it much more than the universe does. The
stars know how to prowl round one another without much damage done.
But you and I, dear reader, in the first conviction that you are me
and that I am you, owing to the oneness of mankind, why, we are always
falling foul of one another, and chewing each other's fur.

You are _not_ me, dear reader, so make no pretentions to it. Don't get
alarmed if _I_ say things. It isn't your sacred mouth which is opening
and shutting. As for the profanation of your sacred ears, just apply a
little theory of relativity, and realize that what I say is not what
you hear, but something uttered in the midst of my isolation, and
arriving strangely changed and travel-worn down the long curve of your
own individual circumambient atmosphere. I may say Bob, but heaven
alone knows what the goose hears. And you may be sure that a red rag
is, to a bull, something far more mysterious and complicated than a
socialist's necktie.

So I hope now I have put you in your place, dear reader. Sit you like
Watts' Hope on your own little blue globe, and I'll sit on mine, and
we won't bump into one another if we can help it. You can twang your
old hopeful lyre. It may be music to you, so I don't blame you. It is
a terrible wowing in my ears. But that may be something in my
individual atmosphere; some strange deflection as your music crosses
the space between us. Certainly I never hear the concert of World
Regeneration and Hope Revived Again without getting a sort of
lock-jaw, my teeth go so keen on edge from the twanging harmony.
Still, the world-regenerators may _really_ be quite excellent
performers on their own jews'-harps. Blame the edginess of my teeth.

Now I am going to launch words into space so mind your cosmic eye.

As I said in my small but naturally immortal book, "Psychoanalysis and
the Unconscious," there's more in it than meets the eye. There's more
in you, dear reader, than meets the eye. What, don't you believe it?
Do you think you're as obvious as a poached egg on a piece of toast,
like the poor lunatic? Not a bit of it, dear reader. You've got a
solar plexus, and a lumbar ganglion not far from your liver, and I'm
going to tell everybody. Nothing brings a man home to himself like
telling everybody. And I _will_ driv