"Well, then—oh, bother you, Colonel Graeme—! I wish you wouldn't interrupt; I've forgotten what I was going to say."
"My books," watching her.
"Oh yes, don't stare, please. Well, an unhealthier selection than you have here on board I've never seen. There's Edgar Allan Poe, for instance, imagination gone mad. Schopenhauer, a philosophy to justify wrong-doing, hence its popularity; it's full of flaws too."
"How?"
"Here's one, at any rate: in his main argument for pessimism, he says desire for anything means unhappiness."
"He's quite right."
"And because we're always wishing for something, we must necessarily be unhappy. He's quite wrong; it's that which alone gives happiness and keeps us alive; for, take away hope—the same thing, for what we desire we hope to get—and suicide would inevitably follow. Everyone, even the most wretched hopes, don't you?"
"Yes, but don't rest content with hoping."
"Well, there's one flaw in your Schopenhauer, there are many others too, but never mind. Now for Lombroso, your other favourite. I see you have 'The Man of Genius' there. Throw it overboard, if you're wise."
"What's the matter with it? It's science."