That was to be expected. CHARLIE woke with the most ridiculous idea. He thought he'd murdered Ellen then cut off his own hand. What a hotbed of nonsense his subconscious was to invent such fictions! He tried to rub the sleep' from his eyes.

And leaving elevators or just sitting around. I stood outside the elevator for a moment searching passing faces for the erosion of personality that must be there. Mass-produced comfort. Room to sleep and eat and watch tridee but no room to be anyone. Living here one would own nothing. What kind of people would live like that? They should have looked all alike moved in unison like the string of images in a barber’s.
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Right track at last. M. Bourget would teach us to know ourselves; that was it: he would reveal us to ourselves. That would be an education. He would explain us to ourselves. Then we should understand ourselves; and after that be able to go on more intelligently. It seemed a doubtful scheme. He could explain us to himself--that would be easy. That would be the same as the naturalist explaining the bug to himself. But to explain the bug to the bug--that is quite a different matter. The bug may not know himself perfectly but he knows himself better than the naturalist can know him at any rate. A foreigner can photograph the exteriors of a nation but I think that that is as far as he can get. I think that no foreigner can report its interior--its soul its life its speech its thought. I think that a knowledge of these things is acquirable in only one way; not two or four or six--absorption; years and years of unconscious.
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