I want, in the Greek sense, an equilibrium between me and the rest of the universe. That is, I want a relationship between me and the brown hen. The Greek equilibrium took too much for granted. The Greek never asked the brown hen, nor the horse, nor the swan, if it would kindly be equilibrated with him. He took it for granted that hen and horse would be only too delighted. You can’t take it for granted. That brown hen is extraordinarily callous to my god-like presence. She doesn’t even choose to know me to nod to. If I’ve got to strike a balance between us, I’ve got to work at it. But that is what I want: that she shall nod to me, with a “_Howdy!_”--and I shall nod to her, more politely: “_How-do-you-do, Flat-foot?_” And between us there shall exist the third thing, the _connaissance_. That is the goal. I shall not betray myself nor my own life-passion for her. When she walks into my bedroom and makes droppings in my shoes, I shall chase her with disgust, and she will flutter and squawk. And I shall not ask her to be human for my sake. That is the mistake the Greeks made. They talked about equilibrium, and then, when they wanted to equilibrate themselves with a horse, or an ox, or an acanthus, then horse, ox, and acanthus had to become nine-tenths human, to accommodate them. Call that equilibrium? As a matter of fact, we don’t call it equilibrium, we call it anthropomorphism. And anthropomorphism is a bore. Too much anthropos makes the world a dull hole. So Greek sculpture tends to become a bore. If it’s a horse, it’s an anthropomorphised horse. If it’s a Praxiteles _Hermes_, it’s a Hermes so Praxitelised, that it begins sugarily to bore us. Equilibrium, in its very best sense--in the sense the Greeks _originally_ meant it--stands for the strange spark that flies between two creatures, two things that are equilibrated, or in living relationship. It is a goal: to come to that state when the spark will fly from me to Flat-foot, the brown hen, and from her to me. I shall leave off addressing her: “_Oh my flat-footed plush arm-chair!_” I realise that is only impertinent anthropomorphism on my part. She might as well address me: “_Oh my skin-flappy split pole!_” Which would be like her impudence. Skin-flappy, of course, would refer to my blue shirt and baggy cord trousers. How would _she_ know I don’t grow them like a loose skin! In the early Greeks, the spark between man and man, stranger and stranger, man and woman, stranger and strangeress, was alive and vivid. Even those Doric Apollos.