ed suddenly
a topic worthy of the most spirited conversation. His spirits arose.
He was no longer solid, space belonged to him also, it was in him and
of him, and so there was a song in his heart. He was hungry and the
friend of man again. Now everything was possible. The girl? Was she
not by his side? The regeneration of Ireland and of Man? That could be
done also; a little leisure and everything that can be thought can be
done: even his good looks might be returned to him: he felt the sting
and tightness of his bruises and was reassured, exultant. He was a man
predestined to bruises; they would be his meat and drink and
happiness, his refuge and sanctuary forever. Let us leave him, then,
pacing volubly by the side of Mary, and exploring with a delicate
finger his half-closed eye, which, until it was closed entirely, would
always be half-closed by the decent buffet of misfortune. His ally and
stay was hunger, and there is no better ally for any man: that
satisfied and the game is up; for hunger is life, ambition, good-will
and understanding, while fullness is all those negatives which
culminate in greediness, stupidity and decay; so his bruises troubled
him no further than as they affected the eyes of a lady wherein he
prayed to be comely.

Bruises, unless they are desperate indeed, will heal at the last for
no other reason than that they must. The inexorable compulsion of all
things is towards health or destruction, life or death, and we hasten
our joys or our woes to the logical extreme. It is urgent, therefore,
that we be joyous if we wish to live. Our heads may be as solid as is
possible, but our hearts and our heels shall be light or we are
ruined. As to the golden mean--let us have nothing to do with that
thing at all; it may only be gilded, it is very likely made of tin of
a dull color and a lamentable sound, unworthy even of being stolen;
and unless our treasures may be stolen they are of no use to us. It is
contrary to the laws of life to possess that which other people do not
want; therefore, your beer shall foam, your wife shall be pretty, and
your little truth shall have a plum in it--for this is so; that your
beer can only taste of your company, you can only know your wife when
some one else does, and your little truth shall be savored or perish.
Do you demand a big truth? Then, Oh Ambitious! you must turn aside
from all your companions and sit very quietly, and if you sit long
enough and quiet enough it