Here, he realized, was where he had lost connection, where he had failed to hold his place in the turmoil.

He had tried to stand off and reach a point of view, to become a spectator, while the only way to fit into the century was simply to keep moving in whirls of unintelligent unison; never to meditate, never to reason upon one's course; but to sweep onward, somewhere, anywhere as long as it was in a new direction.

Elasticity, variability--were not these the indispensable qualities of the modern mind?
The power to make quick decisions and the inability to cling to convictions; the nervous high pitch and the failure to sustain the triumphant note; energy without direction; success without stability; martyrdom without faith.

And around, above, beneath, the pervading mediocrity, the apotheosis of the average.

Was this the best that democracy had to offer mankind?
Was there no depth below the shallows?
Was it impossible, even by the most patient search, to discover some justification of the formlessness of the age, of the crazy instinct for ugliness?
He could forgive it all, he might eventually bring his mind to believe in it, if there were only some logical design informing the disorder.