“Burner!”
“Horrible, isn’t it, Priddy?”
“What do you mean—explain, so that I can get this thing by its head,” I suggested.
Burner seriously gathered himself together in his chair, sipped from a glass of water, and then began,
“Probably I do too much thinking; maybe that’s what’s the matter, Priddy. When I left here, last June, and went out for the summer, I began to try to think through substance; I thought I might do it, sometime. I got to thinking about it, when I took my walks over the hills, and kept thinking about it, but, somehow, I couldn’t get my thought back of the material. When I got back here, last week, I was sitting in this chair, when all of a sudden I did think back of God; and conceived all reality as being so immaterial that nothing exists: no, nothing!” he shouted, “not even—God!”
“Can’t you think back again—to him?” I demanded, making an effort to be of some assistance and comfort to the disconsolate man.
Burner stood on his feet, and paced the floor, excitedly, and said as he gestured with his hands,
“I’ve got to be honest—with truth, no matter how far it leads me!”
“Yes!”
“Just think how horrible it is; I’ve thought back till I’ve struck nothing—nothing!”