XLIX 
  
DEATH TO THE POOR! 
  
  
FOR a fortnight I had shut myself up in my 
room, and had surrounded myself with the 
books that were fashionable at that time—I 
speak of sixteen or seventeen years ago; I 
mean the books in which is discussed the art of 
making everyone happy, wise, and rich, in 
twenty-four hours. I had then digested—
swallowed, I suppose I should say—all the lu-
cubrations of all these happiness-furnishers, 
both those who advise the poor to make them-
selves slaves, and those who persuade them 
that they are all dethroned monarchs. You will 
then not find it surprising that I was in a state 
of mind approximating to giddiness or stupor. 
It seemed to me, only, that I felt, cooped 
up at the bottom of my intellect, the obscure 
germ of an idea superior to all the motherly 
formulas whose dictionary I had been skim-
ming. But it was only the idea of an idea; a 
thing infinitely vague. 
So, feeling very thirsty I went out, for the 
passion for reading bad books begets a propor-