And after
them, this time, groped the blundering feet of his spirit.
Here was he, a mature man, who, in point of work, in all practical and
demonstrable ways, was the millionth man. He was a great editorial
writer, which was a minor but genuine activity. He was a yet greater
writer on social science, which was one of the supreme activities. On
this side, then, certainly the chief side, there could be no question
about the successfulness of his life. His working life was, or would be
before he was through, brilliantly successful. But it had for some time
been plain to him that he stopped short there. He was a great workman,
but that was all. He was a superb rationalist; but after that he did not
exist.
Through the science of Human Intercourse, he saw much more of people now
than he had ever done before, and thus it had become driven home upon
him that most people had two lives, their outer or practical lives, and
their inner or personal lives. But he himself had but one life. He was a
machine; a machine which turned out matchless work for the enlightenment
of the world, but after all a machine.
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