“It is perhaps that you are too individualistic,” panted Mr. Shatov. There was no opening in this for an appearance of easy conversation; the words were leaping and barking round her like dogs.
But she turned swiftly leading the way down a winding side path and demanding angrily as soon as they were alone how it was possible to be too individualistic.
“I agree to a certain extent that it is impossible. A man is first himself. But the peril is of being cut off from his fellow creatures.”
“Why peril? Men descend to meet. Are you a socialist? Do you believe in the opinions of mediocre majorities?”
“Why this adjective? Why mediocre? No, I would call myself rather one who believes in the race.”
“What race? The race is nothing without individuals.”
“What is an individual without the race?”
“An individual, with a consciousness; or a soul, whatever you like to call it. The race, apart from individuals is nothing at all.”
“You have introduced here several immense questions. There is the question as to whether a human being isolated from his fellows would retain any human characteristics. Your great Buckle has considered this in relation to the problem of heredity. But aside of this, has the race not a soul and an individuality? Greater than that of its single parts?”
“Certainly not. The biggest thing a race does is to produce a few big individualities.”