“To return to the vagueness of the notion I have of myself,” said Babbalanja.
“An appropriate theme,” said Media, “proceed.”
“My lord,” murmured Mohi, “Is not this philosopher like a centipede? Cut off his head, and still he crawls.”
“There are times when I fancy myself a lunatic,” resumed Babbalanja.
“Ah, now he’s beginning to talk sense,” whispered Mohi.
“Surely you forget, Babbalanja,” said Media. “How many more theories have you? First, you are possessed by a devil; then rent yourself out to the indweller; and now turn yourself into a mad-house. You are inconsistent.”
“And for that very reason, my lord, not inconsistent; for the sum of my inconsistencies makes up my consistency. And to be consistent to one’s self, is often to be inconsistent to Mardi. Common consistency implies unchangeableness; but much of the wisdom here below lives in a state of transition.”
“Ah!” murmured Mold, “my head goes round again.”
“Azzageddi aside, then, my lord, and also, for the nonce, the mysterious indweller, I come now to treat of myself as a lunatic. But this last conceit is not so much based upon the madness of particular actions, as upon the whole drift of my ordinary and hourly ones; those, in which I most resemble all other Mardians. It seems like going through with some nonsensical whim-whams, destitute of fixed purpose. For though many of my actions seem to have objects, and all of them somehow run into each other; yet, where is the grand result? To what final purpose, do I walk about, eat, think, dream? To what great end, does Mohi there, now stroke his beard?”
“But I was doing it unconsciously,” said Mohi, dropping his hand, and lifting his head.