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you must draw him with a long neck。 If； in your bold creative way；
you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck；
you will really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe。
The moment you step into the world of facts； you step into a world
of limits。 You can free things from alien or accidental laws；
but not from the laws of their own nature。 You may； if you like；
free a tiger from his bars； but do not free him from his stripes。
Do not free a camel of the burden of his hump： you may be freeing him
from being a camel。 Do not go about as a demagogue； encouraging triangles
to break out of the prison of their three sides。 If a triangle
breaks out of its three sides； its life comes to a lamentable end。
Somebody wrote a work called 〃The Loves of the Triangles〃；
I never read it； but I am sure that if triangles ever were loved；
they were loved for being triangular。 This is certainly the case
with all artistic creation； which is in some ways the most
decisive example of pure will。 The artist loves his limitations：
they constitute the THING he is doing。 The painter is glad
that the canvas is flat。 The sculptor is glad that the clay
is colourless。
In case the point is not clear； an historic example may illustrate
it。 The French Revolution was really an heroic and decisive thing；
because the Jacobins willed something definite and limited。
They desired the freedoms of democracy； but also all the vetoes
of democracy。 They wished to have votes and NOT to have titles。
Republicanism had an ascetic side in Franklin or Robespierre
as well as an expansive side in Danton or Wilkes。 Therefore they
have created something with a solid substance and shape； the square
social equality and peasant wealth of France。 But since then the
revolutionary or speculative mind of Europe has been weakened by
shrinking from any proposal because of the limits of that proposal。
Liberalism has been degraded into liberality。 Men have tried
to turn 〃revolutionise〃 from a transitive to an intransitive verb。
The Jacobin could tell you not only the system he would rebel against；
but （what was more important） the system he would NOT rebel against；
the system he would trust。 But the new rebel is a Sceptic；
and will not entirely trust anything。 He has no loyalty； therefore he
can never be really a revolutionist。 And the fact that he doubts
everything really gets in his way when he wants to denounce anything。
For all denunciation implies a moral doctrine of some kind； and the
modern revolutionist doubts not only the institution he denounces；
but the doctrine by which he denounces it。 Thus he writes one book
complaining that imperial oppression insults the purity of women；
and then he writes another book （about the sex problem） in which he
insults it himself。 He curses the Sultan because Christian girls lose
their virginity； and then curses Mrs。 Grundy because they keep it。
As a politician； he will cry out that war is a waste of life；
and then； as a philosopher； that all life is waste of time。
A Russian pessimist will denounce a policeman for killing a peasant；
and then prove by the highest philosophical principles that the
peasant ought to have killed himself。 A man denounces marriage
as a lie； and then denounces aristocratic profligates for treating
it as a lie。 He calls a flag a bauble； and then blames the
oppressors of Poland or Ireland because they take away that bauble。
The man of this school goes first to a political meeting； where he
complains that savages are treated as if they were beasts； then he
takes his hat and umbrella and goes on to a scientific meeting；
where he proves that they practically are beasts。 In short；
the modern revolutionist； being an infinite sceptic； is always
engaged in undermining his own mines。 In his book on politics he
attacks men for trampling on morality； in his book on ethics he
attacks morality for trampling on men。 Therefore the modern man
in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt。
By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel
against anything。
It may be added that the same blank and bankruptcy can be observed
in all fierce and terrible types of literature； especially in satire。
Satire may be mad and anarchic； but it presupposes an admitted
superiority in certain things over others； it presupposes a standard。
When little boys in the street laugh at the fatness of some
distinguished journalist； they are unconsciously assuming a standard
of Greek sculpture。 They are appealing to the marble Apollo。
And the curious disappearance of satire from our literature is
an instance of the fierce things fading for want of any principle
to be fierce about。 Nietzsche had some natural talent for sarcasm：
he could sneer； though he could not laugh； but there is always something
bodiless and without weight in his satire； simply because it has not
any mass of common morality behind it。 He is himself more preposterous
than anything he denounces。 But； indeed； Nietzsche will stand very
well as the type of the whole of this failure of abstract violence。
The softening of the brain which ultimately overtook him was not
a physical accident。 If Nietzsche had not ended in imbecility；
Nietzscheism would end in imbecility。 Thinking in isolation
and with pride ends in being an idiot。 Every man who will
not have softening of the heart must at last have softening of the brain。
This last attempt to evade intellectualism ends in intellectualism；
and therefore in death。 The sortie has failed。 The wild worship of
lawlessness and the materialist worship of law end in the same void。
Nietzsche scales staggering mountains； but he turns up ultimately
in Tibet。 He sits down beside Tolstoy in the land of nothing
and Nirvana。 They are both helplessone because he must not
grasp anything； and the other because he must not let go of anything。
The Tolstoyan's will is frozen by a Buddhist instinct that all
special actions are evil。 But the Nietzscheite's will is quite
equally frozen by his view that all special actions are good；
for if all special actions are good； none of them are special。
They stand at the crossroads； and one hates all the roads and
the other likes all the roads。 The result iswell； some things
are not hard to calculate。 They stand at the cross…roads。
Here I end （thank God） the first and dullest business
of this bookthe rough review of recent thought。 After this I
begin to sketch a view of life which may not interest my reader；
but which； at any rate； interests me。 In front of me； as I close
this page； is a pile of modern books that I have been turning
over for the purposea pile of ingenuity； a pile of futility。
By the accident of my present detachment； I can see the inevitable smash
of the philosophies of Schopenhauer and Tolstoy； Nietzsche and Shaw；
as clearly as an inevitable railway smash could be seen from
a balloon。 They are all on the road to the emptiness of the asylum。
For madness may be defined as using mental activity so as to reach
mental helplessness； and they have nearly reached it。 He who
thinks he is made of glass； thinks to the destruction of thought；
for glass cannot think。 So he who wills to reject nothing；
wills the destruction of will； for will is not only the choice
of something； but the rejection of almost everything。 And as I
turn and tumble over the clever； wonderful； tiresome； and useless
modern books； the title of one of them rivets my eye。 It is called
〃Jeanne d'Arc；〃 by Anatole France。 I have only glanced at it；
but a glance was enough to remind me of Renan's 〃Vie de Jesus。〃
It has the same strange method of the reverent sceptic。 It discredits
supernatural stories that have some foundation； simply by telling
natural stories that have no foundation。 Because we cannot believe
in what a saint did； we are to pretend that we know exactly what
he felt。 But I do not mention either book in order to criticise it；
but because the accidental combination of the names called up two
startling images of Sanity which blasted all the books before me。
Joan of Arc was not stuck at the cross…roads； either by rejecting
all the paths like Tolstoy； or by accepting them all like Nietzsche。
She chose a path； and went down it like a thunderbolt。 Yet Joan；
when I came to think of her； had in her all that was true