Turn and turn and turn again; there is ever a crumpled rose-leaf to vex you."[204] It is not often that we find such active benevolence as Diderot's, in conjunction with such a vein of philosophy as follows:-- "Ah, what a fine comedy this world would be, if only one had not to play a part in it; if one existed, for instance, in some point of space, in that interval of the celestial orbs where the gods of Epicurus slumber, far, far away, whence one could see this globe, on which we strut so big, about the size of a pumpkin, and whence one could watch all the airs and tricks of that two-footed mite who calls itself man.

I would fain only look at the scenes of life in reduced size, so that those which are stamped with atrocity may be brought down to an inch in space, and to actors half a line high.

But how bizarre, that our sense of revolt against injustice is in the ratio of the space and the mass.

I am furious if a large animal unjustly attacks another.

I feel nothing at all if it is two atoms that tear and rend.