"I mean we're like the little elements in a magnet; ought not to lie higgledy-piggledy, ought to point the same way, bepolarized----Something microcosmic, you know, ought to be found in a man. "Analogies run away with one. Suppose the bar isn't magnetized yet! Suppose purpose has to come; suppose the immortal stuff isn't yet, isn't being but struggling to be. Struggling to be.... Gods! that morning! When the child was born! And afterwards she was there--with a smile on her lips, and a little flushed and proud--as if nothing had happened so very much out of the way. Nothing so wonderful. And we had another life besides our own!..." Afterwards he came back to that. "That was a good image," he said, "something trying to exist, which isn't substance, doesn't belong to space or time, something stifled and enclosed, struggling to get through. Just confused birth cries, eyes that hardly see, deaf ears, poor little thrusting hands. A thing altogether blind at first, a twitching and thrusting of protoplasm under the waters, and then the plants creeping up the beaches, the insects and reptiles on the margins of the rivers, beasts with a flicker of light in their eyes answering the sun. And at last, out of the long interplay of desire and fear, an ape, an ape that stared and wondered, and scratched queer pictures on a bone...." He lapsed into silent thought for a time, and Marjorie glanced at his dim face in the shadows. "I say nothing of ultimates," he said at last. He repeated that twice before his thoughts would flow again. "This is as much as I see, in time as I know it and space as I know it--_something struggling to exist_. It's true to the end of my limits. What can I say beyond that? It struggles to exist, becomes conscious, becomes now conscious of itself. That is where I come in, as a part of it. Above the beast in me is that--the desire to know better, to know--beautifully, and to transmit my knowledge. That's all there is in life for me beyond food and shelter and tidying up. This Being--opening its eyes, listening, trying to comprehend. Every good thing in man is that;--looking and making pictures, listening and making songs, making philosophies and sciences, trying new powers, bridge and engine, spark and gun. At the bottom of my soul, _that_. We began with bone-scratching. We're still--near it. I am just a part of this beginning--mixed with other things. Every book, every art, every religion is that, the attempt to understand and express--mixed with other things. Nothing else matters, nothing whatever. I tell you----Nothing whatever! "I've always believed that. All my life I've believed that. "Only I've forgotten." "Every man with any brains believes that at the bottom of his heart. Only he gets busy and forgets. He goes shooting lynxes and breaks his leg. Odd, instinctive, brutal thing to do--to go tracking down a lynx to kill it! I grant you that, Marjorie. I grant you that."