“Come here, Zarathustra,” chuckles this Przybyszewski, and he coaxes him off the heights, off the peaks where he is waiting to be fed by the eagles.
And striding from the peaks comes Zarathustra. Who do you suppose it is? Przybyszewski, of course.
They greet each other.
And Przybyszewski says to this self of his: “So you are the ultimate clay, ha, ha.”
And this self answers: “Yea, behold in me the finite evolution, man crowned by his own hard and subtly-won glories.”
“Come here,” purrs Przybyszewski. Remember, he is talking to himself—at his desk.
Hesitating, frowning, and yet with the pure grimace of superiority stamped on his face, this self approaches. And the book is on.
Przybyszewski’s inspiration is the fury of a madman, the derisive, diabolical chuckling of a fanatical cynic.
“Come now, we will fly,” whispers Przybyszewski, and off they go—the innocent Zarathustra and the steeped, slashbuckling Przybyszewski. And remember still—they are one.
And the rest of it is the plot of Homo Sapiens, the book, which I will skip....