Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/224

 And Hung Long Tom walked alone through the garden. He was seeking, seeking. There was so much that must be found. And perhaps that is true of all of us. We go forward day by day in perpetual hunger, hungering for something we know not what. The banker sits in his office beset by uncountable worries, longing to be free, to get off for a few days fishing, to wear overalls and to give his pompous expression a rest. The laborer hungers to be a master, the sailor, a captain. And so on without cessation. Someone has said that business is an octopus, it destroys everyone it clutches. It is questionable whether its intrinsic value offsets the havoc it has wrought Hunger, hunger, the one craving from which we cannot escape be we tatterdemalion or king. Hunger is the driving force that moves the world, hunger for knowledge of the universe, hunger to know more about the far places of the earth, hunger for beauty, hunger for something that has less substance than cobwebs glistening in the sun. When man ceases to be hungry he dies. The will to live is gone.