See Przybyszewski creating him—Erick Falk. He is sitting at his desk. He is going to write a book about man, not a type, not a silhouette, but about Man complete. He wants the final man of his day, the Homo Sapiens, the Zarathustran phantom. This Przybyszewski is a thorough fellow, a biologist, a poet, a physician, an historian, a psychologist. He lives on an operating table. Knows his own insides. “Come here, Zarathustra,” chuckles this Przybyszewski, and he coaxes him off the heights, off the peaks where he is waiting to be fed by the eagles. And striding from the peaks comes Zarathustra. Who do you suppose it is? Przybyszewski, of course. They greet each other. And Przybyszewski says to this self of his: “So you are the ultimate clay, ha, ha.” And this self answers: “Yea, behold in me the finite evolution, man crowned by his own hard and subtly-won glories.” “Come here,” purrs Przybyszewski. Remember, he is talking to himself—at his desk. Hesitating, frowning, and yet with the pure grimace of superiority stamped on his face, this self approaches. And the book is on. Przybyszewski’s inspiration is the fury of a madman, the derisive, diabolical chuckling of a fanatical cynic. “Come now, we will fly,” whispers Przybyszewski, and off they go—the innocent Zarathustra and the steeped, slashbuckling Przybyszewski. And remember still—they are one. And the rest of it is the plot of _Homo Sapiens_, the book, which I will skip.... Thus Eric Falk soars and Przybyszewski shows the sorry mechanics of his wings, laughing, chuckling, for they are his own. Thus toward the middle of the book you begin wondering. Falk is going to pieces, Falk the immutable, the all knowing, the transcender, the ... the ... the ... the Homo Sapiens. What is the matter? When he betrays a woman and causes her death a hideous vapor suddenly envelopes his soul and befouls it. Przybyszewski thrusts his radiant leer from behind Zarathustra’s mask and hisses, “Conscience, ha!” And thus it goes its merry way. To the edge of the precipice this mad Pole pushes his whirling Falk, to the utter edge of known reason, known psychology and known Passions. And then suddenly the soarer falls. The mechanism comes clattering to earth—to the bottom of the precipice. The lugubrious Stanislaw has led his creation—himself—to the limits. He has finished his book. Piled on the desk lies the heap of glowing sentences, the history of rhapsodic vivisection. Przybyszewski has expressed himself. He has uttered his most internal cry, the cry of a poet, a weaver of plots, an anatomical expert, of an introspective vulture-minded Disbeliever.