If there were some kind of moody and changeable type all sizes, kinds and colors, and if this book could be printed with irregular, up and down and sidling lines--printed for people the way they are going to read it, if the sentences in this chapter could duck under into subterranean passages or could take nice little airy swoops or flights--if every line on a page could dart and waver around in different kinds and colors of type, make a perfect picture of what is going to happen to it when it is going through people's minds, there is not anybody who would not agree with me that all these people we see about us who seem to us to be living their lives in stops, skips and flashes probably live so, because they listen so. If the type in the pages in this book dealing with Mr. Burleson could be more responsive, could act the way Mr. Burleson's mind does when he reads it--that is if I could have the printer dramatize in the way he sets the type what Mr. Burleson is going to do with his mind or not do with his mind with each pellucid sentence as it purls--even Mr. Burleson himself would be a good deal shocked to see how very little about himself in my book, he was really carrying away from it. If in Mr. Burleson's own personal copy of this book, I were to have this next chapter about him that is going to follow soon--especially the sentences in it he is going to slur over the meaning of or practically not read at all--printed in invisible ink and there were just those long pale gaps about him, so that he would have to pour chemical on them to get them--so that he would have to dip the pages in some kind of nice literary goo to see what other people were reading about him, he would probably carry away more meaning than I or any one could hope for in ordinary type like this, which gives people a kind, pleasant, superficial feeling they are reading whether they are reading or not. IV LIVING DOWN CELLAR IN ONE'S OWN MIND What I saw a little three-year-old girl the other day doing with her dolly--dragging its flaxen-haired head around on the floor and holding on to it dreamily by the leg, is what the average man's body can be seen almost any day, doing to his mind. One feels almost as if one ought to hush it up at first until a few million more men have made similar practical observations in the psychology and physiology of modern life when one comes to see what our civilization is bringing us to--what it really is that almost any man one knows, including the man of marked education--take him off his guard almost any minute--is letting his body do to his mind.