stewing,' says the young man who, against his wish, will fail in his
examination. 'The words were out of my mouth before I knew it,' says the
husband whose wife is a woman. 'I couldn't get any inspiration to-day,'
says the artist. 'I can't resist Stilton,' says the fellow who is dying
of greed. 'One can't help one's thoughts,' says the old worrier. And
this last really voices the secret excuse of all five.

And you all say to me: 'My brain is myself. How can I alter myself? I
was born like that.' In the first place you were not born 'like that,'
you have lapsed to that. And in the second place your brain is not
yourself. It is only a part of yourself, and not the highest seat of
authority. Do you love your mother, wife, or children with your brain?
Do you desire with your brain? Do you, in a word, ultimately and
essentially _live_ with your brain? No. Your brain is an instrument. The
proof that it is an instrument lies in the fact that, when extreme
necessity urges, _you_ can command your brain to do certain things, and
it does them. The first of the two great principles which underlie the
efficiency of the human machine is this: _The brain is a servant,
exterior to the central force of the Ego_. If it is out of control the
reason is not that it is uncontrollable, but merely that its discipline
has been neglected. The brain can be trained, as the hand and eye can be
trained; it can be made as obedient as a sporting dog, and by similar
methods. In the meantime the indispensable preparation for brain
discipline is to form the habit of regarding one's brain as an
instrument exterior to one's self, like a tongue or a foot.




IV