The hundreds out of
these thousands full of it. A vast tank of cerebration. And we put
none of it together; we work nothing out from that but poor little
couplings and casual stories, patchings up of situations,
misbehaviours, blunders, disease, trouble, escapes; and the next
generation will start, and the next generation after that will start
with nothing but your wisdom of the ages, which isn't wisdom at all,
which is just awe and funk, taboos and mystery and the secretive
cunning of the savage. . . .
"What I really want to do is my work," said Prothero, going off
quite unexpectedly again. "That is why all this business, this
incessant craving and the shame of it and all makes me so infernally
angry. . . ."
11
"There I'm with you," cried Benham, struggling out of the thick
torrent of Prothero's prepossessions. "What we want to do is our
work."
He clung to his idea. He raised his voice to prevent Prothero
getting the word again.
"It's this, that you call Work, that I call--what do I call it?--
living the aristocratic life, which takes all the coarse simplicity
out of this business.
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