Little Poems in Prose

XXIII SOLITUDE A PHILANTHROPIC journalist tells me that solitude is bad for man, and, to support this thesis, quotes, like all unbelievers, the sayings of the Fathers of the Church. I know that the devil gladly haunts barren places, and that the spirit of murder and of lust inflames itself miraculously in solitudes; but it is just possible that this solitude is only dan- gerous for the idle and dispersed soul, which peoples it with its passions and chimeras. It is certain that a wind-bag whose su- preme pleasure consists in speaking from a platform or a rostrum would run serious trou- ble of becoming a furious madman on Robin- son Crusoe’s island. I do not demand from my journalist the heroic virtues of that adventure, but I do ask that he should not pass sentence upon those who love solitude and mystery. In our chattering race there are individuals who would accept with less repugnance the last penalty of the law if they were allowed to make a lengthy speech from the scaffold free from