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Updated: May 21, 2025
Scogan saying, "human beings will be separated out into distinct species, not according to the colour of their eyes or the shape of their skulls, but according to the qualities of their mind and temperament. Examining psychologists, trained to what would now seem an almost superhuman clairvoyance, will test each child that is born and assign it to its proper species.
"You're right," said Mr. Scogan. "I can't." "You don't feel it to be magical?" "No." "That's the test for the literary mind," said Denis; "the feeling of magic, the sense that words have power. The technical, verbal part of literature is simply a development of magic. Words are man's first and most grandiose invention.
Still the 'Tales of Knockespotch'..." He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs of the non-existent, unattainable books. "But I disagree with you about reading," said Mary. "About serious reading, I mean." "Quite right, Mary, quite right," Mr. Scogan answered. "I had forgotten there were any serious people in the room." "I like the idea of the Biographies," said Denis.
His frail and slender body seemed to be fed by a spring of inexhaustible energy. "No, you're not late." "You're in time to answer a question," said Mr. Scogan. "We were arguing whether Amour were a serious matter or no. What do you think? Is it serious?" "Serious?" echoed Ivor. "Most certainly." "I told you so," cried Mary triumphantly. "But in what sense serious?" Mr. Scogan asked.
"I've known a great many artists, and I've always found their mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for example I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring..." "Ah, but then you're an exception, Mary, you're an exception," said Mr. Scogan. "You are a femme superieure." A flush of pleasure turned Mary's face into a harvest moon.
Life is gay all the same, always, under whatever circumstances under whatever circumstances," he added, raising his voice to a shout. But Denis was already far out of hearing, and even if he had not been, his mind to-night was proof against all the consolations of philosophy. Mr. Scogan replaced his pipe between his teeth and resumed his meditative pacing.
In England" he put the tip of his forefinger against the tip of his thumb and, lowering his hand, drew out this circle into an imaginary cylinder "In England they're tubular. But their sentiments are always the same. At least, I've always found it so." "I'm delighted to hear it," said Mr. Scogan. The ladies had left the room and the port was circulating. Mr.
From ten yards away and at a first glance, one might almost have mistaken this secret door for a section of shelving filled with genuine books. Coffee-cup in hand, Mr. Scogan was standing in front of the dummy book-shelf. Between the sips he discoursed. "The bottom shelf," he was saying, "is taken up by an Encyclopaedia in fourteen volumes.
Scogan went on, "that they possess nothing more than a back and a title?" He opened the cupboard door and peeped inside, as though he hoped to find the rest of the books behind it. "Phooh!" he said, and shut the door again. "It smells of dust and mildew. How symbolical!
But isn't a complete and absolute change precisely the thing we can never have never, in the very nature of things?" Mr. Scogan once more looked rapidly about him. "Of course it is. As ourselves, as specimens of Homo Sapiens, as members of a society, how can we hope to have anything like an absolute change?
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