his business; at best he does not dislike it. He begins his
business functions with reluctance, as late as he can, and he ends
them with joy, as early as he can. And his engines while he is
engaged in his business are seldom at their full "h.p." (I know
that I shall be accused by angry readers of traducing the city
worker; but I am pretty thoroughly acquainted with the City, and I
stick to what I say.)

Yet in spite of all this he persists in looking upon those hours
from ten to six as "the day," to which the ten hours preceding them
and the six hours following them are nothing but a prologue and
epilogue. Such an attitude, unconscious though it be, of course
kills his interest in the odd sixteen hours, with the result that,
even if he does not waste them, he does not count them; he regards
them simply as margin.

This general attitude is utterly illogical and unhealthy, since it
formally gives the central prominence to a patch of time and a bunch
of activities which the man's one idea is to "get through" and have
"done with." If a man makes two-thirds of his existence subservient
to one-third, for which admittedly he has no absolutely feverish
zest, how can he hope to live fully and completely? He cannot.

If my typical man wishes to live fully and completely he must, in
his mind, arrange a day within a day. And this inner day, a Chinese
box in a larger Chinese box, must begin at 6 p.m. and end at 10 a.m.
It is a day of sixteen hours; and during all these sixteen hours he
has nothing whatever to do but cultivate his body and his soul and
his fellow men. During those sixteen hours he is free; he is not a
wage-earner; he is not preoccupied with monetary cares; he is just