self. "They do as they like. But since, after all, I am a kind-hearted dear creature, I will just climb the minaret of myself and sound my muezzin."
So behold the poor dear on his pinnacle lifting his hands.
"God is God and man is man; and every man by himself. Every man by himself, alone with his own soul. Alone as if he were dead. Dead to himself. He is dead and alone. He is dead; alone. His soul is alone. Alone with God, with the dark God. God is God."
But if he likes to shout muezzins, instead of hawking fried fish or newspapers or lottery tickets, let him.
Poor dear, it was rather an anomalous call: "Listen to me, and be alone." Yet he felt called upon to call it.
To be alone, to be alone, and to rest on the unknown God alone.
The God must be unknown. Once you have defined him or described him, he is the most chummy of pals, as you'll know if you listen to preachers. And once you've chummed up with your God, you'll never be alone again, poor you. For that's the end of you. You and your God chumming it through time and eternity.
Poor Richard saw himself in funny situations.
"My dear young lady, let me entreat you, be alone, only be alone."
"Oh, Mr Somers, I should love to, if you'd hold my hand."
"There is a gulf,' growing sterner, "surrounds each solitary soul. A gulf surrounds you—a gulf surrounds me—"
"I'm falling!" shrieks and flings her arms around his neck. Or Kangaroo.
"Why am I so beastly to Kangaroo? said Richard to himself. "For beastly I am. I am a detestable little brat to them all round."
A detestable little brat he felt.
But Kangaroo wanted to be queen-bee of another hive, with all the other bees clustering on him like some huge mulberry. Sickening! Why couldn't he be alone? At least for once. For once withdraw entirely.
And a queen bee buzzing with beatitudes. Beatitudes, beatitudes. Bee attitudes or any other attitudes, it made
