What then would you say of the usual interpretation of the word "literature"?--Permanence. A great army with its tail in antiquity. Cliche of the soul: beauty. But can you have literature without beauty? It all depends on what you mean by beauty. There is beauty in the bellow of the BLAST, etc. from all previous significance.--To me beauty is purity. To me it is discovery, a race on the ground. And for this you are willing to smash-- Yes, everything.--To go down into hell.--Well let's look. CHAPTER IV [Illustration] That's all very fine about _le mot juste_ but first the word must be free.--But is there not some other way? It must come about gradually. Why go down into hell when--Because words are not men, they have no adjustments that need to be made. They are words. They can not be anything but free or bound. Go about it any way you chose. The word is the thing. If it is smeared with colors from right and left what can it amount to? I'd hate to have to live up there, she said with a frown. It was the soul that spoke. In her words could be read the whole of democracy, the entire life of the planet. It fell by chance on his ear but he was ready, he was alert. And the little dusty car: There drawn up at the gutter was a great truck painted green and red. Close to it passed the little runabout while conscious desire surged in its breast. Yes there he was the great powerful mechanism, all in his new paint against the gutter while she rolled by and saw--The Polish woman in the clinic, yellow hair slicked back. Neck, arms, breast, waist, hips, etc. This is THE thing--The small mechanism went swiftly by the great truck with fluttering heart in the hope, the secret hope that perhaps, somehow he would notice--HE, the great truck in his massiveness and paint, that somehow he would come to her. Oh I wouldn't like to live up there! FOG HOLDS UP LINERS say the head lines. It is a blackness, a choking smother of dirty water in suspension.--You should have been here this morning. You could look out and see nothing but a sea of cloud below us. Right at our feet the fog began and stretched off as far as the eye could perceive. Up out of the trees with a whirr started the sparrows. With a loud clatter the grouse got up at his feet. The ground was full of mushrooms. Everything, no matter what it is must be re-valuated. The red grass will soon open into feathers. Peter Broom, yes sah, my grandfather sah, the greatest man in Prince George County. He had three hundred children. So many things, so many things: heat. What then are you trying to say in THIS chapter? And what of your quest of THE word? What of A.N.T. ant? Why someone has offended Wells. He has retorted with NEO-ACADEMICIAN: And: No new form of the novel required. Lack of substance always takes the form of novelty mongering. Empire must be saved! Saved for the proletariat.