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Bones. Especially as interpreted by followers absolutely wallowing in Ruach.
Bowley. Shall we leave it at that? That Bones finds objective truth a Way up the Tree, and a Fruit in the topmost bough?
Bones. I am more positive than that.
Bowley. Less Zoroaster and more Pyrrho, please Lord, for Brother Bones! else you will fall into the way of Paul, and perish in the gainsaying of Mohammed.
Bones. You are obstinate about the necessity of scorning the objective results of illumination. But let us consider the perfect man.
Bowley. Oh, brother, this is fulsome.
Bones. Ass! . . . He lives (it is true) in Kether; but his mind and body, perfect though they are, work, as it were automatically, in their own plane. At present I am quite unconscious of my heart beating; it is not even an illusion! Yet it maintains its just relation to the other illusory things. So, no doubt, an adept is quite unconscious of the acts and thoughts performed by him, acts and thoughts which seem to imply conscious volition. What about your poetry?
Bowley. Certainly, I am never—very seldom—very very seldom—aware of what I am going to write, am writing, have written. I know, for example, roughly, that we have been talking about Truth to-night. But Heaven help me if I should try to reproduce the arguments or apportion the speeches! A great deal of my verse is the mere reflection of my rapture—a rapture, may be, of dissimilar nature. I fall in love, and write "The God-Eater"; see Citlaltepetl, and out comes "Night in the Valley!" "What he poured in at the mouth o' the mill as a 33rd Sonata (fancy now!) Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, naught else, The Shakers Hymn in G with a natural F Or the Stars and Stripes set to consecutive Fourths." I am not a poet; I am a typewriter. A very complex machine, and one capable of self-adjustment and improvement; but I can't dictate as much as a business letter. The machine needs the Operator before a single key can be struck. If Bowley goes mad (the quartos have "madder"), or dies,