“And I am a unique person,” he said to himself. “I have humour and originality--both qualities are worth more than gold. I make no charge for my jokes--I ask no fee for being amusing, though I really ought to do so. In the dulness created by average brains I am a kind of luminary; and if I stay on here--avoiding the November fogs in London--I give as much as I take--in fact more,--for if they feed _me_ materially I feed _them_ intellectually!”
Truth to tell the Philosopher was pre-eminently known as what is called a “sponge.” From his boyhood up he had always been paid for by other people. Why this was so no one could tell. But so it was. He was not a bread-winner. He had written a few books--books that resembled ancient Brazil nuts, very hard to open, and very dried-up inside--books that he wrote entirely for his own satisfaction, though for nobody else’s pleasure. Naturally the books did not sell,--but according to his view and that of many other unsuccessful dabblers in literature, that only proved their brilliancy and excellence. The oft-quoted and worn-out phrase, “The public is a hass,” expressed his opinion of that great majority whose approval every man of note, whether in literature or politics, is eager to win while openly denying its value,--and on one occasion when an old college friend remarked:
“Nobody knows you ever wrote anything and nobody cares!” he accepted the crushing statement with a bland smile and nod of acquiescence.
“Do I expect any one to know or to care?” he demanded. “Do I ask for the undiscriminating applause of the vulgar? Do I write stories about silly young women who fall in love with their guardians, and then when they are married, elope with actors and stable-men? Do I take up the rag remains of the ‘sex question’ and tear it into fresh shreds? No! Then how is it possible the man or woman ‘in the street’ should appreciate _me_? As well ask them to appreciate the Elgin marbles or the Parthenon! I assure you I am perfectly satisfied to be as I am--unknown and uncared for.”
“Then what’s the use of writing anything?” he asked. “And when you come to that, what’s the use of living?”
“Really, my dear fellow, you are very simple!” said the Philosopher. “Pathetically so! There is of course _no_ use in living. But, unhappily, we have no choice in the matter. We are born,--without our own specific consent--and we die--in the same attitude of non-volition. Apparently we come into life for the purpose of propagating our kind--to no special end. Those who decline to propagate human units are considered ridiculous--even if they propagate thoughts,--through literature, painting or music,--the world does not want literature, music or painting so much as it wants squalling, guzzling babies who will grow up into squalling, guzzling men and women--most of them having no aim in life except to squall and guzzle. I have chosen a path for myself out of the squall and guzzle track--I live my own life of studious contemplation, and though I fully recognise its uselessness in common with the general futility of things, I manage to endure existence comfortably.”