The serious part of our instinctive self feebly
remonstrates, but without effect. Or it may be that we have suffered a
great disappointment, which is definite and hopeless. Will the brain,
like a sensible creature, leave that disappointment alone, and instead
of living in the past live in the present or the future? Not it! Though
it knows perfectly well that it is wasting its time and casting a very
painful and utterly unnecessary gloom over itself and us, it can so
little control its unhealthy morbid appetite that no expostulations will
induce it to behave rationally. Or perhaps, after a confabulation with
the soul, it has been decided that when next a certain harmful instinct
comes into play the brain shall firmly interfere. 'Yes,' says the
brain, 'I really will watch that.' But when the moment arrives, is the
brain on the spot? The brain has probably forgotten the affair entirely,
or remembered it too late; or sighs, as the victorious instinct knocks
it on the head: 'Well, _next_ time!'
All this, and much more that every reader can supply from his own
exciting souvenirs, is absurd and ridiculous on the part of the brain.
It is a conclusive proof that the brain is out of condition, idle as a
nigger, capricious as an actor-manager, and eaten to the core with loose
habits.
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