'You've got that mirror, your own fixed will, your immortal
understanding, your own tight conscious world, and there is nothing
beyond it. There, in the mirror, you must have everything. But now you
have come to all your conclusions, you want to go back and be like a
savage, without knowledge. You want a life of pure sensation and
"passion."'

He quoted the last word satirically against her. She sat convulsed with
fury and violation, speechless, like a stricken pythoness of the Greek
oracle.

'But your passion is a lie,' he went on violently. 'It isn't passion at
all, it is your WILL. It's your bullying will. You want to clutch
things and have them in your power. You want to have things in your
power. And why? Because you haven't got any real body, any dark sensual
body of life. You have no sensuality. You have only your will and your
conceit of consciousness, and your lust for power, to KNOW.'

He looked at her in mingled hate and contempt, also in pain because she
suffered, and in shame because he knew he tortured her. He had an
impulse to kneel and plead for forgiveness. But a bitterer red anger
burned up to fury in him. He became unconscious of her, he was only a
passionate voice speaking.

'Spontaneous!' he cried. 'You and spontaneity! You, the most deliberate
thing that ever walked or crawled! You'd be verily deliberately
spontaneous--that's you. Because you want to have everything in your
own volition, your deliberate voluntary consciousness. You want it all
in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like
a nut. For you'll be the same till it is cracked, like an insect in its