But his knowledge of me is not immediate knowledge nor immediately interesting to him. He knows my Twos-and-Twos but he does not make Fours of them. I am formed of loose Twos which wait for God to make them Fours. I can not do it myself. When I’ve tried the added Twos come out threes, seventies, nines, twelves--all the mysterious numbers. Never Fours. Long ago I decided not to try but to wait for God. I juggle with temperamental and psychic Twos and experiment in hysteric additions. But it’s no good my trying to make Fours. If God does not take it up I shall be eternal Twos. And I seem not greatly to care: whenever that comes home to me I merely light a carefree cigarette. _Knitting or plaiting straw_ To-morrow The things I know are jumbled and tangled into an indescribable heap inside me. The things I Don’t Know are separated and ranged of their own volition in long orderly rows in my conscious mentality. The things I know glow with tints and gleams and will-o’-wisp lights and primal colors and waveringly with the blinding gold-purple lightnings of all-Time. The things I Don’t Know glow--each one separately--with a small precise lantern-brightness of its own. Also in my wide background are things I don’t know and am unaware of it: the mass of my luminous Ignorance--it shines with an earthy phosphorescence. When I look at the things I know I get an undetailed perspective of me like a bird’s-eye view of London. When I look at neat formal rows of things I Don’t Know I have a clear look, as if through an uncurtained window into a bare little room, at my quietest self sitting knitting or plaiting straw. I reckon up and count up and check up lists of big and little things I Don’t Know--like this, rapidly: I Don’t Know what ink is made of, nor how to fire a Maxim gun: I don’t know how to make a will: I don’t know how to cook a prairie-chicken, nor what to feed a pet weasel, nor who invented the snarling-iron, nor what it is. I Don’t Know what food people eat in the Himalaya Mountains, nor how Lord Cornwallis felt when he surrendered: I don’t know the color of a chicken’s gizzard, nor of sand, nor of fish-scales, nor of mice: I don’t know whether an English cabinet minister needs strength of mind or strength of will, or both, or neither. I Don’t Know how I hurt the true heart of my friend: I don’t know astronomy nor solid geometry: I don’t know what I think with: I don’t know what ooze leather is, nor who pitched for the Tigers in nineteen-nine. I Don’t Know a good horse from a bad horse: I don’t know why a bat sleeps head downward, nor what wasps live on: I don’t know how to open oysters, nor how to milk a cow: I don’t know the Latin for ‘whiskey.’