Poor human nature!  Flagellated on every hand, what are we to do with it?  Why is the careerist so numerous and ubiquitous?  Why does the slave-soul infiltrate like a cancer the soul of society with its black fluid?  Is freedom, the divine idea, nothing but the toy of an orator to the majority, a distant star in the night to a helpless minority?  Yet the instinct to freedom, the appetite for freedom, flickers through the centuries as a fitful flame, though snuffed out by every gust of class passion, every wind of mob resentment, and every storm of national jealousy.  Though the inferior subnormals multiply into great sheep majorities, and the careerists, like Napoleon, morbid variants, involve millions in their disease, the idea of freedom persists obstinately.  Have we any reason for regarding it as other than an illusion?

If freedom is an illusion, we must admit the doom of democracy.  And no Wagnerian crashes of orchestration mitigate the tragedy of the scene as our eyes are opened to the twilight of our new gods.  For what other social methods are there left to us?  In the struggle against nature’s barriers upon human aspiration for perfect satisfactions, it looks as though every other method has failed us.

In the past, refined aristocracies and benevolent despotisms have failed as miserably as our democracies are now failing and as we are sure crude anarchism and communism would.  Their inferiority has thrown them on the scrap heap.  As for our present ways of government as a permanent method, the storage of power in the hands of the Clever Few.  War burns in the lesson of how little the careerist regards either the subnormal or supernormal.  He condemns them all sooner or later to wholesale slavery and carnage.

Is man then never to be the architect of his own destiny?  Are we to surrender our faith in the future of our kind to the spectacle of a miserable species sentenced by its own nature to self-destruction?  We thought to rise upon the wings of knowledge and beauty, lured by the mysteries of color and the magic of design and the might of the intellect and its words, that have transfigured life into the greatest adventure ever attempted in time and space.  But we find ourselves merely another experiment, intricate and rather long drawn out, to be sure, with marvelous pyrotechnics, magnificent effects here and there, but bound to eliminate itself in the end, to make stuff for the museums of the real conqueror of the stars yet to come.  We are condemned to be classed with the dodo and the mammoth by the coming discoverer of an escape from the slave and careerist.  And so let us resign ourselves to fate.  Let us eat of the humble bread of the stoic’s consolation in the face of the mocking laughter of the gods, let us admit that Mind in Man has unconsciously but irretrievably willed its own self-annihilation.  What remains for us except to beat our breasts and proclaim:  So be it, O Lord, so be it?