Consider Little Hans, Kohler—do—do—oh, ja, yes, do con-sid-er him. He does long complicated sums aged one, reads Greek at three, plays Beethoven at five, although his bitsy feet can barely reach the pedals . . . well, he’s insignificant. Who cares? Will he reason any better, when he’s grown, than your John Stuart Mill, a prodigy too? I—and history—shit on him. No. It doesn’t depend on (O O O O, they are such imbeciles, Kohler! how can they manage to breathe? they are such im-be-ciles!)—no, oh no . . . no, not on the fertility of invention, or the charm of an active fancy. It’s nothing crude, Kohler, like a cockster’s skill. They are bumspittling lickhicks who think thus. And it’s not divine, no, not sent from some on-high like piss out a window—never—you know, like faith or grace or peace or purity or charity—they must have bald and pruny monks’ cods to think so—O no never. Then let’s be practical, shall we? Say we shall. Let’s come to earth; plant our feet; touch what’s real; let’s be—let’s be—concrete. And what is real in that way? right you are! only a warm blood-flooded prick. So say it’s . . . wealth. Shall we be swiftly done, get right along, and simply say it’s wealth? Hoo. Wealth. Wealth cannot purchase it, neither can beauty. Greatness, Kohler? Of course not. Not a feel-up, not a look-in, not a peek. No! Not if Midas’ pee were liquid gold, if Aphrodite split her cunt among the thieves or sold her bosom for the silver. Not if Jesus shat in the hand of God and buggered Nature at both poles. That doesn’t get it. Fawning, smirking, smiling, sniffing, fouling the mouth, dirtying the teeth, the tongue, the swallow-tube, the stomach next, not last nor least (when I go fast, Herr Kohler, as you see, I squeak), by going down on cunt, cock, dung hole, knee, for favor, when in heat, or out of courtesy . . . courtesy! ah, sunning in asslight till you tan—sweet summerlong vacations in the South—or otherwise to crawl, dart, sneak, or pander, be of use, oblige, and with the nose and ears to simper, playing rabbit to the snake, quail to the hunter—oh, to fake! to fake! and bravo with limp hands—or otherwise by grinning, or by clowning, fooling, fondling, cooing, oh, O, OH to scrape and scrape, to tip your head like a hat with a public handle, yes yes yessing like these cockhockkissing spermspitters always do, wagging, bowing, niggering and knaving, purring like a Yiddish cat: that THAT doesn’t doesn’t get it either. We were speaking of GREATNESS! Kohler . . . oh . . . it isn’t character or luck: it isn’t fate, clan, or family; though patience is part of it—persistence—pride. Yes, yes, yes—yes, possibly . . . pride. But a man might as well fuck mud to fertilize an empire, or a woman lie with a battery between her thighs and hope to feel a little lightning in her belly—hah, god, just as useless, just as wise. Our Great Leader, the Thunder Führer, you remember, could only get an Adam by some similar exercise. No . . . ach . . . Look at me, Kohler. I’ve the bones of a giant. I sing like a siren. I make intoxicating dreams. Then—then men listen. Enchanted, how they listen. Oh Kohler—greatness—greatness isn’t sensitivity or vision, Kohler—no—take it from me: GREATNESS IS PASSION!