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318 mysterious disease. There it is—empty, indifferent, waiting for somebody—anybody at all—to come and sit down in it. (A pause.) What were we saying?—Oh, yes. I remember. The pleasures we take in imagination—how do you suppose I came to think of a chair in one of those waiting-rooms in a doctor's office, where the patients sit waiting for their turn?

Well, you ought to thank God that you've nothing worse than annoyances!—(A pause.) Some of us, you know, are worse off than that! (A pause.) I'm telling you that I need to attach myself in my imagination to the lives other people lead. But—in my peculiar way—without pleasure—without any real interest, even—in such a way, in fact—yes, just so—in such a way, precisely, as to sense the annoyances they encounter In such a way as to be able to understand how stupid and silly life is, so that no one, really, ought to care a snap about being rid of the thing! (With sullen rage.) And that’s a good deal to prove, you know. It takes