The point is strained again when Mr. Brooks digs around the roots of Mark Twain’s “obsession of animosity against the novels of Jane Austen” and traces it to an “indirect venting of his hatred of the primness and priggishness of his own _entourage_.” More specifically, in his submerged self he hated his wife and Howells. “When Mark Twain utters such characteristic aphorisms as ‘Heaven for climate, hell for society,’ we see the repressed artist in him striking out at Mrs. Clemens and the Rev. Joseph Twitchell, whose companionship the dominant Mark Twain called, and with reason, for he seems to have been the most lovable of men, ‘a companionship which to me stands first after Livy’s [his wife’s].’ Similarly, when he roars and rages against the novels of Jane Austen we can see that buried self taking vengeance upon Mr. Howells, with whom Jane Austen was a prime passion, who had even taken Jane Austen as a model.” Now, of course, when the psychoanalytic hunt is on it seems unsubtle and unsympathetic to object, with common sense, that our antipathies are often accidental and that often enough we whimsically specialize in this or that antipathy, seeing how many angles we can hate it from, in how many slashing phrases we can utter a distaste which has grown into a habit that is positively a delight. But even if we do not lean too heavily on common sense and are merely rival psychoanalysts we must still admit that in Freud’s house are many mansions and that every genius analyzed has so many roots each of them may look like the tap-root, though only one can actually be.