quite rational lover, simply because a perfectly rational lover would
never get married. The world does not encourage a perfectly rational
army, because a perfectly rational army would run away.

The brain of Bernard Shaw was like a wedge in the literal sense. Its
sharpest end was always in front; and it split our society from end to
end the moment it had entrance at all. As I have said he was long
unheard of; but he had not the tragedy of many authors, who were heard
of long before they were heard. When you had read any Shaw you read all
Shaw. When you had seen one of his plays you waited for more. And when
he brought them out in volume form, you did what is repugnant to any
literary man--you bought a book.

The dramatic volume with which Shaw dazzled the public was called,
_Plays, Pleasant and Unpleasant_. I think the most striking and typical
thing about it was that he did not know very clearly which plays were
unpleasant and which were pleasant. "Pleasant" is a word which is almost
unmeaning to Bernard Shaw. Except, as I suppose, in music (where I
cannot follow him), relish and receptivity are things that simply do not
appear. He has the best of tongues and the worst of palates. With the
possible exception of _Mrs. Warren's Profession_ (which was at least
unpleasant in the sense of being forbidden) I can see no particular
reason why any of the seven plays should be held specially to please or
displease. First in fame and contemporary importance came the reprint
of _Arms and the Man_, of which I have already spoken. Over all the rest
towered unquestionably the two figures of Mrs. Warren and of Candida.
They were neither of them pleasant, except as all good art is pleasant.
They were neither of them really unpleasant except as all truth is
unpleasant. But they did represent the author's normal preference and
his principal fear; and those two sculptured giantesses largely upheld
his fame.

I fancy that the author rather dislikes _Candida_ because it is so
generally liked. I give my own feeling for what it is worth (a foolish
phrase), but I think that there were only two moments when this powerful
writer was truly, in the ancient and popular sense, inspired; that is,
breathing from a bigger self and telling more truth than he knew. One is
that scene in a later play where after the secrets and revenges of Egypt
have rioted and rotted all round him, the colossal sanity of Caesar is
suddenly acclaimed with swords. The o