From Graham Wallas, The Art of Thought
A distant ancestor of ours, some Aurignacian Shelley,
living in the warm spell between two ice ages, may have been content to lie on
the hillside, and allow the songs of the birds and the loveliness of the clouds
to mingle with his wonder as to the nature of the universe in a delightful
uninterrupted stream of rising and falling reverie, enjoyed and forgotten as it
passed. But the modern thinker has
generally accepted, willingly or unwillingly, the task of making permanent his
thought for the use of others, as the only justification of his position in a
society few of whose members have time or opportunity for anything but a life
of manual labour.
So, publish or back to the coal mines?