His name was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories--
a novelist in embryo.
"What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the
deadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me
that we live the life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or we
bore ourselves, and we sleep--and all the rest of the world does the
same. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis.
The storms which shake humanity break over other countries. What is
there left to us of life? Civilization ministers too easily to our
needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a tired
race."
"Life is the same, the world over," another man remarked. "With every
forward step in civilization, life must become more mechanical. London
is no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo."
Aynesworth shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he replied. "It
is the same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxon
temperament, with its mixture of philosophy and philistinism, more
than any other, gravitates towards the life mechanical. Existence here
has become fossilized. We wear a mask upon our faces; we carry a gauge
for our emotions. Lovell is going where the one great force of
primitive life remains. He is going to see war. He is going to breathe
an atmosphere hot with naked passion; he is going to rub shoulders
with men who walk hand in hand with death.
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