Don’t take my word for it though. They are born idiots, incurably insane. “I have made no progress with my work,” she said slowly, “and the money was gone. She would write to Gerald. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. She had to resist an impulse of sheer terror, to run out after them and give in. He refused. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. It loves to sit on your knee.
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