That is the true origin
of standing on one's head; and the ultimate defence of paradox.
The wheel humbles itself to be exalted; only it does it a little
quicker than I do.
Five Hundred and Fifty-five
Life is full of a ceaseless shower of small coincidences:
too small to be worth mentioning except for a special purpose,
often too trifling even to be noticed, any more than we notice
one snowflake falling on another. It is this that lends
a frightful plausibility to all false doctrines and evil fads.
There are always such crowds of accidental arguments for anything.
If I said suddenly that historical truth is generally told
by red-haired men, I have no doubt that ten minutes' reflection
(in which I decline to indulge) would provide me with a handsome
list of instances in support of it. I remember a riotous argument
about Bacon and Shakespeare in which I offered quite at random
to show that Lord Rosebery had written the works of Mr. W. B. Yeats.
No sooner had I said the words than a torrent of coincidences
rushed upon my mind. I pointed out, for instance, that Mr. Yeats's
chief work was "The Secret Rose." This may easily be paraphrased
as "The Quiet or Modest Rose"; and so, of course, as the Primrose.
A second after I saw the same suggestion in the combination of "rose"
and "bury." If I had pursued the matter, who knows but I might have
been a raving maniac by this time.
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