He reads only the newspapers and magazines
that tell him what he wants to be told, listens only to the
biologists who tell him that he is the finest product of the struggle
for existence, and herds only with his own kind, where, like the
monkey-folk, they teeter up and down and tell one another how great
they are.
In the course of his life godlike he ignores the flesh--until he gets
to table. He raises his hands in horror at the thought of the
brutish prize-fighter, and then sits down and gorges himself on roast
beef, rare and red, running blood under every sawing thrust of the
implement called a knife. He has a piece of cloth which he calls a
napkin, with which he wipes from his lips, and from the hair on his
lips, the greasy juices of the meat.
He is fastidiously nauseated at the thought of two prize-fighters
bruising each other with their fists; and at the same time, because
it will cost him some money, he will refuse to protect the machines
in his factory, though he is aware that the lack of such protection
every year mangles, batters, and destroys out of all humanness
thousands of working-men, women, and children.
Pages:
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58