"
"So do I," said Ideala; "I find much that raises me on stilts."
"But even that eminence would enable you to look over other people's
heads and beyond."
"It would," she answered, "if human nature didn't desire a sense of
security; but, as it is, when I am artificially set up, I find that all
I can do is to look at my own feet, and tremble lest I fall. Modern
literature stimulates; it doesn't nourish. It makes you feel like a
giant for a moment, but leaves you crushed like a worm, and without
faith, without love, without hope. It excites you pleasurably, and when
you see life through its medium you never suspect that the vision is
distorted. It makes you think the Iconoclast the greatest hero, and
causes you to feel that you share his glory when you help him with your
approval to overthrow all the images you ever cherished; but when the
work of destruction is over, and you look about you once more with
sober eyes, you find you have sacrificed your all for nothing. Your
false guide fails you when you want him most. He robs you, and leaves
you hungry, thirsty, and alone in the wilderness to which he has
beguiled you.
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