r, the way they do not see what they look at, or the way they think,
when they think, when they think they think.

(For every time I say "they" in the last paragraph will the reader kindly
read "we.")

If there were some kind of moody and changeable type all sizes, kinds and
colors, and if this book could be printed with irregular, up and down and
sidling lines--printed for people the way they are going to read it, if
the sentences in this chapter could duck under into subterranean passages
or could take nice little airy swoops or flights--if every line on a page
could dart and waver around in different kinds and colors of type, make a
perfect picture of what is going to happen to it when it is going through
people's minds, there is not anybody who would not agree with me that all
these people we see about us who seem to us to be living their lives in
stops, skips and flashes probably live so, because they listen so.

If the type in the pages in this book dealing with Mr. Burleson could be
more responsive, could act the way Mr. Burleson's mind does when he reads
it--that is if I could have the printer dramatize in the way he sets the
type what Mr. Burleson is going to do with his mind or not do with his
mind with each pellucid sentence as it purls--even Mr. Burleson himself
would be a good deal shocked to see how very little about himself in my
book, he was really carrying away from it.

If in Mr. Burleson's own personal copy of this book, I were to have this
next chapter about him that is going to follow soon--especially the
sentences in it he is going to slur over the meaning of or practically
not read at all--printed in invisible ink and there were just those long
pale gaps about him, so that he would have to pour chemical on them to
get them--so that he would have to dip the pages in some kind of nice
literary goo to see what other people were reading about him, he would
probably carry away more meaning than I or any one could hope for in
ordinary type like this, which gives people a kind, pleasant, superficial
feeling they are reading whether they are reading or not.

IV

LIVING DOWN CELLAR IN ONE'S OWN MIND

What I saw a little three-year-old girl the other day doing with her
dolly--dragging its flaxen-haired head around on the floor and holding on
to it dreamily by the leg, is what the average man's body can be seen
almost any day, doing to his mind.

One feels almost as if one ought to hush it up