We could have produced the same barrenness and frenzy of nothingness in people, perhaps, by dinning it into them that every man is just a charnel-house skeleton of unclean bones.

Our "understanding," our science and idealism have produced in people the same strange frenzy of self-repulsion as if they saw their own skulls each time they looked in the mirror.

A man is a thing of scientific cause-and-effect and biological process, draped in an ideal, is he?
No wonder he sees the skeleton grinning through the flesh.
Our leaders have not loved men: they have loved ideas, and have been willing to sacrifice passionate men on the altars of the blood-drinking, ever-ash-thirsty ideal.

Has President Wilson, or Karl Marx, or Bernard Shaw ever felt one hot blood-pulse of love for the working man, the half-conscious, deluded working man?
Never.

Each of these leaders has wanted to abstract him away from his own blood and being, into some foul Methuselah or abstraction of a man.
And me?
There is no danger of the working man ever reading my books, so I shan't hurt him that way.