interests　me　above　all　things　namely；　Life：　the　force　that　ever
  strives　to　attain　greater　power　of　contemplating　itself。　What
  made　this　brain　of　mine；　do　you　think？　Not　the　need　to　move　my
  limbs；　for　a　rat　with　half　my　brains　moves　as　well　as　I。　Not
  merely　the　need　to　do；　but　the　need　to　know　what　I　do；　lest　in　my
  blind　efforts　to　live　I　should　be　slaying　myself。
  THE　STATUE。　You　would　have　slain　yourself　in　your　blind　efforts
  to　fence　but　for　my　foot　slipping；　my　friend。
  DON　JUAN。　Audacious　ribald：　your　laughter　will　finish　in　hideous
  boredom　before　morning。
  THE　STATUE。　Ha　ha！　Do　you　remember　how　I　frightened　you　when　I
  said　something　like　that　to　you　from　my　pedestal　in　Seville？　It
  sounds　rather　flat　without　my　trombones。
  DON　JUAN。　They　tell　me　it　generally　sounds　flat　with　them；
  Commander。
  ANA。　Oh；　do　not　interrupt　with　these　frivolities；　father。　Is
  there　nothing　in　Heaven　but　contemplation；　Juan？
  DON　JUAN。　In　the　Heaven　I　seek；　no　other　joy。　But　there　is　the
  work　of　helping　Life　in　its　struggle　upward。　Think　of　how　it
  wastes　and　scatters　itself；　how　it　raises　up　obstacles　to　itself
  and　destroys　itself　in　its　ignorance　and　blindness。　It　needs　a
  brain；　this　irresistible　force；　lest　in　its　ignorance　it　should
  resist　itself。　What　a　piece　of　work　is　man！　says　the　poet。　Yes：
  but　what　a　blunderer！　Here　is　the　highest　miracle　of　organization
  yet　attained　by　life；　the　most　intensely　alive　thing　that　exists；
  the　most　conscious　of　all　the　organisms；　and　yet；　how　wretched
  are　his　brains！　Stupidity　made　sordid　and　cruel　by　the　realities
  learnt　from　toil　and　poverty：　Imagination　resolved　to　starve
  sooner　than　face　these　realities；　piling　up　illusions　to　hide
  them；　and　calling　itself　cleverness；　genius！　And　each　accusing
  the　other　of　its　own　defect：　Stupidity　accusing　Imagination　of
  folly；　and　Imagination　accusing　Stupidity　of　ignorance：　whereas；
  alas！　Stupidity　has　all　the　knowledge；　and　Imagination　all　the
  intelligence。
  THE　DEVIL。　And　a　pretty　kettle　of　fish　they　make　of　it　between
  them。　Did　I　not　say；　when　I　was　arranging　that　affair　of　Faust's；
  that　all　Man's　reason　has　done　for　him　is　to　make　him　beastlier
  than　any　beast。　One　splendid　body　is　worth　the　brains　of　a
  hundred　dyspeptic；　flatulent　philosophers。
  DON　JUAN。　You　forget　that　brainless　magnificence　of　body　has　been
  tried。　Things　immeasurably　greater　than　man　in　every　respect　but
  brain　have　existed　and　perished。　The　megatherium；　the
  icthyosaurus　have　paced　the　earth　with　seven…league　steps　and
  hidden　the　day　with　cloud　vast　wings。　Where　are　they　now？　Fossils
  in　museums；　and　so　few　and　imperfect　at　that；　that　a　knuckle　bone
  or　a　tooth　of　one　of　them　is　prized　beyond　the　lives　of　a
  thousand　soldiers。　These　things　lived　and　wanted　to　live；　but　for
  lack　of　brains　they　did　not　know　how　to　carry　out　their　purpose；
  and　so　destroyed　themselves。
  THE　DEVIL。　And　is　Man　any　the　less　destroying　himself　for　all
  this　boasted　brain　of　his？　Have　you　walked　up　and　down　upon　the
  earth　lately？　I　have；　and　I　have　examined　Man's　wonderful
  inventions。　And　I　tell　you　that　in　the　arts　of　life　man　invents
  nothing；　but　in　the　arts　of　death　he　outdoes　Nature　herself；　and
  produces　by　chemistry　and　machinery　all　the　slaughter　of　plague；
  pestilence　and　famine。　The　peasant　I　tempt　to…day　eats　and　drinks
  what　was　eaten　and　drunk　by　the　peasants　of　ten　thousand　years
  ago；　and　the　house　he　lives　in　has　not　altered　as　much　in　a
  thousand　centuries　as　the　fashion　of　a　lady's　bonnet　in　a　score
  of　weeks。　But　when　he　goes　out　to　slay；　he　carries　a　marvel　of
  mechanism　that　lets　loose　at　the　touch　of　his　finger　all　the
  hidden　molecular　energies；　and　leaves　the　javelin；　the　arrow；　the
  blowpipe　of　his　fathers　far　behind。　In　the　arts　of　peace　Man　is　a
  bungler。　I　have　seen　his　cotton　factories　and　the　like；　with
  machinery　that　a　greedy　dog　could　have　invented　if　it　had　wanted
  money　instead　of　food。　I　know　his　clumsy　typewriters　and　bungling
  locomotives　and　tedious　bicycles：　they　are　toys　compared　to　the
  Maxim　gun；　the　submarine　torpedo　boat。　There　is　nothing　in　Man's
  industrial　machinery　but　his　greed　and　sloth：　his　heart　is　in　his
  weapons。　This　marvellous　force　of　Life　of　which　you　boast　is　a
  force　of　Death：　Man　measures　his　strength　by　his　destructiveness。
  What　is　his　religion？　An　excuse　for　hating　ME。　What　is　his　law？
  An　excuse　for　hanging　YOU。　What　is　his　morality？　Gentility！　an
  excuse　for　consuming　without　producing。　What　is　his　art？　An
  excuse　for　gloating　over　pictures　of　slaughter。　What　are　his
  politics？　Either　the　worship　of　a　despot　because　a　despot　can
  kill；　or　parliamentary　cockfighting。　I　spent　an　evening　lately　in
  a　certain　celebrated　legislature；　and　heard　the　pot　lecturing　the
  kettle　for　its　blackness；　and　ministers　answering　questions。　When
  I　left　I　chalked　up　on　the　door　the　old　nursery　saying〃Ask　no
  questions　and　you　will　be　told　no　lies。〃　I　bought　a　sixpenny
  family　magazine；　and　found　it　full　of　pictures　of　young　men
  shooting　and　stabbing　one　another。　I　saw　a　man　die：　he　was　a
  London　bricklayer's　laborer　with　seven　children。　He　left
  seventeen　pounds　club　money；　and　his　wife　spent　it　all　on　his
  funeral　and　went　into　the　workhouse　with　the　children　next　day。
  She　would　not　have　spent　sevenpence　on　her　children's　schooling：
  the　law　had　to　force　her　to　let　them　be　taught　gratuitously；　but
  on　death　she　spent　all　she　had。　Their　imagination　glows；　their
  energies　rise　up　at　the　idea　of　death；　these　people：　they　love
  it；　and　the　more　horrible　it　is　the　more　they　enjoy　it。　Hell　is　a
  place　far　above　their　comprehension：　they　derive　their　notion　of
  it　from　two　of　the　greatest　fools　that　ever　lived；　an　Italian　and
  an　Englishman。　The　Italian　described　it　as　a　place　of　mud；　frost；
  filth；　fire；　and　venomous　serpents：　all　torture。　This　ass；　when
  he　was　not　lying　about　me；　was　maundering　about　some　woman　whom
  he　saw　once　in　the　street。　The　Englishman　described　me　as　being
  expelled　from　Heaven　by　cannons　and　gunpowder；　and　to　this　day
  every　Briton　believes　that　the　whole　of　his　silly　story　is　in　the
  Bible。　What　else　he　says　I　do　not　know；　for　it　is　all　in　a　long
  poem　which　neither　I　nor　anyone　else　ever　succeeded　in　wading
  through。　It　is　the　same　in　everything。　The　highest　form　of
  literature　is　the　tragedy；　a　play　in　which　everybody　is　murdered
  at　the　end。　In　the　old　chronicles　you　read　of　earthquakes　and
  pestilences；　and　are　told　that　these　showed　the　power　and　majesty
  of　God　and　the　littleness　of　Man。　Nowadays　the　chronicles
  describe　battles。　In　a　battle　two　bodies　of　men　shoot　at　one
  another　with　bullets　and　explosive　shells　until　one　body　runs
  away；　when　the　others　chase　the　fugitives　on　horseback　and　cut
  them　to　pieces　as　they　fly。　And　this；　the　chronicle　concludes；
  shows　the　greatness　and　majesty　of　empires；　and　the　littleness　of
  the　vanquished。　Over　such　battles　the　people　run　about　the
  streets　yelling　with　delight；　and　egg　their　Governments　on　to
  spend　hundreds　of　millions　of　money　in　the　slaughter；　whilst　the
  strongest　Ministers　dare　not　spend　an　extra　penny　in　the　pound
  against　the　poverty　and　pestilence　through　which　they　themselves
  daily　walk。　I　could　give　you　a　thousand　instances；　but　they　all
  come　to　the　same　thing：　the　power　that　governs　the　earth　is　not
  the　power　of　Life　but　of　Death；　and　the　inner　need　that　has
  nerved　Life　to　the　effort　of　organizing　itself　into　the　human
  being　is　not　the　need　for　higher　life　but　for　a　more　efficient
  engine　of　destruction。　The　plague；　the　famine；　the　earthquake；
  the　tempest　were　too　spasmodic　in　their　action；　the　tiger　and
  crocodile　were　too　easily　satiated　and　not　cruel　enough：
  something　more　constantly；　more　ruthlessly；　more　ingeniously
  destructive　was　needed；　and　that　something　was　Man；　the　inventor
  of　the　rack；　the　stake；　the　gallows；　and　the　electrocutor；　of　the
  sword　and　gun；　above　all；　of　justice；　duty；　patriotism　and　all
  the　other　isms　by　which　even　those　who　are　clever　enough　to　be
  humanely　disposed　are　persuaded　to　become　the　most　destructive　of
  all　the　destroyers。
  DON　JUAN。　Pshaw！　all　this　is　old。　Your　weak　side；　my　diabolic
  friend；　is　that　you　have　always　been　a　gull：　you　take　Man　at　his
  own　valuation。　Nothing　would　flatter　him　more　than　your　opinion
  of　him。　He　loves　to　think　of　himself　as　bold　and　bad。　He　is
  neither　one　nor　the　other：　he　is　only　a　coward。　Call　him　tyrant；
  murderer；　pirate；　bully；　and　he　will　adore　you；　and　swagger　about
  with　the　consciousness　of　having　the　blood　of　the　old　sea　kings
  in　his　veins。　Call　him　liar　and　thief；　and　he　will　only　take　an
  action　against　you　for　libel。　But　call　him　coward；　and　he　will　go
  mad　with　rage：　he　will　face　death　to　outface　that　stinging　truth。
  Man　gives　every　reason　for　his　conduct　save　one；　every　excuse　for
  his　crimes　save　one；　every　plea　for　his　safety　save　one；　and　that
  one　is　his　cowardice。　Yet　all　his　civilization　is　founded　on　his
  cowardice；　on　his　abject　tameness；　which　he　calls　his
  respectability。　There　are　limits　to　what　a　mule　or　an　ass　will
  stand；　but　Man　will　suffer　himself　to　be　degraded　until　his
  vileness　becomes　so　loathsome　to　his　oppressors　that　they
  themselves　are　forced　to　reform　it。
  THE　DEVIL。　Precisely。　And　these　are　the　creatures　in　whom