"Well," I continued, "you ought to have a little relaxation; you're knocking yourself up." And, indeed, he looked awfully ill.
But he shook his head.
"A man's only a definite amount of force in him, Pudgie," he said, "and if he spends it in one way he goes short in another. Mine goes—there." He glanced at the statue. "I rarely sleep now," he added.
"Then you ought to see a doctor," I said, a bit alarmed. (I'd felt sure he was ill.)
"No, no, Pudgie. My force is all going there—all but the minimum that can't be helped, you know…. You've heard artists talk about 'putting their soul into their work,' Pudgie?"
"Don't rub it in about my rotten miniatures, Benlian," I asked him.
"You've heard them say that; but they're charlatans, professional artists, all, Pudgie. They haven't got any souls bigger than a sixpence to put into it…. You know, Pudgie, that Force and Matter are the same thing—that it's decided nowadays that you can't define matter otherwise than as 'a point of Force'?"
"Yes," I found myself saying eagerly, as if I'd heard it dozens of times before.
"So that if they could put their souls into it, it would be just as easy for them to put their bodies into it?…"
I had drawn very close to him, and again—it was not fancy—I felt as if somebody, not me, was using my mouth. A flash of comprehension seemed to come into my brain.