Sensibility is the definition of life.

I recur for a last word to Jack the Giant-Killer. I have dwelt
on this matter of Mr. Wells and the giants, not because it is
specially prominent in his mind; I know that the Superman does
not bulk so large in his cosmos as in that of Mr. Bernard Shaw.
I have dwelt on it for the opposite reason; because this heresy
of immoral hero-worship has taken, I think, a slighter hold of him,
and may perhaps still be prevented from perverting one of
the best thinkers of the day. In the course of "The New Utopia"
Mr. Wells makes more than one admiring allusion to Mr. W. E. Henley.
That clever and unhappy man lived in admiration of a vague violence,
and was always going back to rude old tales and rude old ballads,
to strong and primitive literatures, to find the praise of strength
and the justification of tyranny. But he could not find it.
It is not there. The primitive literature is shown in the tale of Jack
the Giant-Killer. The strong old literature is all in praise of the weak.
The rude old tales are as tender to minorities as any modern
political idealist. The rude old ballads are as sentimentally
concerned for the under-dog as the Aborigines Protection Society.
When men were tough and raw, when they lived amid hard knocks and
hard laws, when they knew what fighting really was, they had only
two kinds of songs. The first was a rejoicing that the weak had
conquered the strong, the second a lamentation that the strong had,
for once in a way, conquered the weak. For this defiance of
the statu quo, this constant effort to alter the existing balance,
this premature challenge to the powerful, is the whole nature and
inmost secret of the psychological adventure which is called man.
It is his strength to disdain strength. The forlorn hope
is not only a real hope, it is the only real hope of mankind.