d deception.

"But you, who have opened the books and who share my awful
confidence--you know him for what he is, brother to you and the dust, a
cosmic joke, a sport of chemistry, a garmented beast that arose out of
the ruck of screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable
great toes. He is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee. He
thumps his chest in anger, and roars and quivers with cataleptic
ferocity. He knows monstrous, atavistic promptings, and he is composed
of all manner of shreds of abysmal and forgotten instincts."

"Yet he dreams he is immortal," I argue feebly. "It is vastly wonderful
for so stupid a clod to bestride the shoulders of time and ride the
eternities."

"Pah!" is the retort. "Would you then shut the books and exchange places
with this thing that is only an appetite and a desire, a marionette of
the belly and the loins?"

"To be stupid is to be happy," I contend.

"Then your ideal of happiness is a jelly-like organism floating in a
tideless, tepid twilight sea, eh?"

Oh, the victim cannot combat John Barleycorn!

"One step removed from the annihilating bliss of Buddha's Nirvana," the
White Logic adds. "Oh well, here's the house. Cheer up and take a
drink. We know, we illuminated, you and I, all the folly and the farce."

And in my book-walled den, the mausoleum of the thoughts of men, I take
my drink, and other drinks, and roust out the sleeping dogs from the
recesses of my brain and hallo them on over the walls of prejudice and
law and through all the cunning labyrinths of superstition and belief.

"Drink," says the White Logic. "The Greeks believed that the gods gave
them wine so that they might forget the miserableness of existence. And
remember what Heine said."

Well do I remember that flaming Jew's "With the last breath all is done:
joy, love, sorrow, macaroni, the theatre, lime-trees, raspberry drops,
the power of human relations, gossip, the barking of dogs, champagne."

"Your clear white light is sickness," I tell the White Logic. "You lie."

"By telling too strong a truth," he quips back.

"Alas, yes, so topsy-turvy is existence," I acknowledge sadly.

"Ah, well, Liu Ling was wiser than you," the White Logic girds. "You
remember him?"

I nod my head--Liu Ling, a hard drinker, one of the group of bibulous
poets who called themselves the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove and who
lived in China many an ancient century ago.

"It was Li