“You want to hear my theory? This is it. I believe that all the fuss he made was an attempt to get out of Art back into life again, like a fish flopping about who had got into the wrong tank. It would be more exact to say, _back into sex_. He was trying to get back into sex again out of a little puddle of Art where he felt he was gradually expiring. What I mean is this. He was an art student without any talent, and was leading a dull, slovenly existence like thousands of others in the same case. He was very hard up. Things were grim that way too. The sex-instinct of the average man, then, had become perverted into a silly false channel. Or it might be better to say that his elementary art-instinct had been rooted out of sex and one or two other things, where it was both useful and ornamental, and naturally flourished, and had been exalted into a department by itself, where it bungled and wrecked everything. It is a measure the need of which hits the eye in these days to keep the art-instinct of the run of men in its place. These art-spirits should be kept firmly embedded in _sex_, in _fighting_, and in _affairs_. The nearest the general run of men can get to Art is _Action_. Real, bustling, bloody action is what they want! Sex is _their_ form of art: the battle of existence in enterprise, Commerce, is _their_ picture. The moment they _think_ or _dream_ you get an immense weight of cheap stagnating passion that becomes a menace to the health of the world. A “cultured” nation is as great a menace as a “free” one. The answer to the men who object to this as high-handed is plain enough. You must answer: No man’s claim is _individual;_ the claim of an exceptional being is that of an important type or original—is an inclusive claim. The eccentric Many do not matter. They are the individuals. And anyway Goddam economy in any shape or form! Long live Waste! Curse the principle of Humanity! Mute inglorious Miltons are not mute for God-in-Heaven. They have the Silence. Bless Waste, Heaven bless Waste! Hoch Waste!” “I’ll drink to that!” said Anastasya, raising her glass. “Here’s to Waste! Hoch!” Tarr drank this toast with gusto. “Here’s to Waste!” he said loudly. “Waste yourselves, pour yourselves out, let there be no High-Men except such as happen! Economy is sedition. Drink your blood if you have no wine! But _waste_; fling out into the streets; never count your yarn. Accept fools, compromise yourselves with the poor in spirit, fling the rich ones behind you; live like the lions in the forests with fleas on your back. Down with the _Efficient_ Chimpanzee!” Anastasya’s eyes were bloodshot with the gulp she had taken to honour Waste. Tarr patted her on the back. “There are no lions in the forests!” she hiccuped, patting her chest. “You’re pulling my leg.”