Says Mrs. Ogi: “Here is Haldeman-Julius, discussing the thesis of your book. He says: ‘You may say that because Balzac drew his characters largely from the bourgeoisie he was conducting a subtle propaganda in behalf of a class; or, in general, that he was a bourgeois author. But such a view would be a travesty of literary criticism.’” Says Ogi: “That is what a great many people are going to call this book. But let us see what we can make of Balzac.” At this point the mail arrives, and in it a letter to Mrs. Ogi, telling some bad news about a friend. A look of deep distress comes upon her face, and Ogi, watching her, is suddenly inspired. “Hold that expression!” he cries. “What do you mean?” falters Mrs. Ogi. “It’s what I need for a story! I want to get all the details of it--the trembling of your lips, the look in your eyes. Hold it now! It is copy!” “I think you are out of your mind,” says Mrs. Ogi; and her face assumes a quite different expression. Says her husband: “I am the artist, and I feed on life. My fellow humans suffer, and a voice within me cries: ‘Magnificent!’ Anguish writes itself upon their features, and I whisper: ‘There is a great moment!’ They are utterly abased, and I think: ‘Here is my chance of immortality!’” Says Mrs. Ogi: “You are a monster! I have always known it.” “I am one among thousands of monsters, ranging the earth, competing furiously for their prey. I explore the whole field of human experience; I climb the mountain peaks, I ransack the starry spaces, I rummage the dust-bins of history, collecting great significant moments, climaxes of emotion, drama, suspense, thrill; when I find it, I slap my knee, like Thackeray writing the scene of Becky Sharp caught in adultery, and exclaiming: ‘There is a stroke of genius!’ I see tears falling, and I think: ‘That will sell!’ Out of that cry of despair I shall make a feast! From this tale of tragedy I shall build a new house! Upon this heap of anguish I shall leap to fame! I shall enlarge my ego, expand in the admiration of my fellow-men, enjoying dominion over their emotions and their thoughts. Also, of course, I shall not forget my fellow-women, their thrills and ecstasies; I shall have gorgeous apartments, furnished with barbaric splendor, to which will come brilliant and fascinating admirers--” Says Mrs. Ogi: “Is this a dream you want me to psychoanalyze?” “No,” says her husband, “it is simply the soul of Balzac which I am putting before you: the most perfect type of the predatory artist that has existed in human history; the art for art’s sake ideal incarnate; genius divorced from conscience, save only as applied to the art work itself--the inexorable duty of portraying the utmost conceivable energy, fury, splendor, terror, sublimity, melodrama, pity, elegance, greed, horror, cruelty, anguish, beauty, passion, worship, longing, wickedness, glory, frenzy, majesty and delight.”