I cannot understand why we hesitate to explain life according to our present knowledge. There is no trace of an omnipotent or all-good God to be found anywhere in life; but there is everywhere in animals, as in insects, abounding evidence of a creative impulse, and impulse that is the chief source of our bodily pleasures and is at the same time the soul, so to speak, of all our highest spiritual joys. To deny this universal creative impulse would be as ridiculous, it seems to me, as to talk of goodness in creation.
There are two other facts that appear to consort better with our wishes; we seem to be able to trace hierarchy in living creatures and it is fairly plain that the tenure of life corresponds roughly to this hierarchy. That is, the highest or most complicated creatures live the longest. Furthermore the highest in the hierarchy, men and women, are also the kindliest, the most unselfish, in short the most moral, or rather the only ones in whom morality can be said to exist.
We have then in life a universal creative impulse and this impulse satisfies itself in producing higher and higher creatures; or, if you will, more and more complex creatures, and these creatures in proportion to their complexity live longer than the others and finally develop a morality of kindness and unselfishness which the other creatures know little or nothing about.
There is a certain order in the universe, a rude imperfect order, if you will, but order neverthelessorder and law.
And strange to say, in this cosmos ruled by law, there are continued revelations of pure beauty; now a sunset or sunrise; again a coastline framing a dark blue ocean transfigured by silvery moonlight; or a mountain gorge with pine-clad heights and shadowy depths holding a little rivulet; or simply a superb man's figure or the soul-glow in a girl's eyes. Beauty everywhere, without order of any kind or law that we can detect.
Now is the creative impulse to stop and be satisfied with men and women? That is a question we cannot answer from experience. Some say the creative impulse is committed by its very nature to an endless succession of cycles. I see no reason to believe this; rather I believe that the best men will sooner or later get together and transform this world of ours into an Earthly Paradise by making men and women better and wiser than we can easily imagine them today. It seems so simple to begin by abolishing war and doing away with armies and navies while spending the money thus saved on the education and development of the many. We could thus put an end to poverty and know nothing more of the millionaire or the starving child, and every foot of progress upward would make the next step easier, the good result more certain. The heaven dreamed of can be realized here on this earth and in man's lifetime if we set ourselves to the work.
One cannot resist the question: Are we tending to this goal or are we merely taking our wishes for the spirit and purpose of the Universe? Even so, it may be that our unselfish desires are themselves prophetic of the future.
It looks as if the creative impulse we have found everywhere in life is working out its own fulfillment. How else can we explain the fact that the best men, centuries after their death, are selected out and adored as Gods, their teaching even becoming our example and inspiration?
In truth, we men are called and chosen to a purpose higher than our consciousness. The creative impulse, if not God, is at least a conscious striving to reach the highest. We must cooperate with this impulse and do our best to make this life worth living for all and so turn men and women into ideals and this earthly pilgrimage of ours into a sacred achievement.
CHAPTER V
It was in Shanghai that I first learned that various poisons and aliments are supposed to increase desire or intensify sensation, but I found them no more efficacious than the spiritual theories of Mr. Sinnett. Indeed, in time I came to explain the wide use of drugs throughout China with reference to the curious insensitiveness of Chinese women.
I was taken by a Chinese I met shortly after my arrival from Burma to one of the famous “opium dens” for which China is famous. Frankly, I was very disappointed. I achieved neither the desired physical effect nor that intense state of clear vision attained by Coleridge on the eve on which he wrote “Kubla Khan.” I smoked the prescribed twenty pipes again and again without ever achieving either object.
This was especially true in regards to sex. My friend had obtained a young Chinese woman for me. When I was “high” I was to make love to her. We were taken to the place of our assignation in a rickshaw and once in the room, the Chinese girl immediately put herself at my disposal. A few words of description would not be out of place since, in spite of the fact that I was disappointed with the effect the drug had on me, the girl herself was the picture of loveliness.
She lay cool and naked as yellow marble on the gaudy red-covered divan, her little hands crossed on her full breast and her legs together. Her nipples were large and dark, though they were not engorged, even when I removed my clothes and I stood naked before her, my cock standing straight out in anticipation of the pleasure to come. Her hair was thick and lay in crushed tresses under her back. Between her thighs, under a glossy chevron of hair, her pussy lips were obvious, larger than I personally would have expected, but pretty and warmly moist to the touch. But she made no response as I laid my hand on her mount She remained as cool as a cucumber through the entire operation.
Only the slightest tremor passed through her limbs as I applied my lips to hers, and even when I hovered on the verge of fucking her, it was merely a matter of opening her legs. She had gathered her knees up and they fell open like the pages of a heavy book. I shrugged and moved up closer to her slit, placing the head of my cock against that warmly throbbing entrance. Usually, it has been my experience that a woman will respond to this with either some gesture or word, or even a moan signaling her rising passion. But with this one there was nothing. I entered her slowly, studying her eyes, which remained expressionless through the entire affair. I pumped her slowly, then hard, almost brutally, in an effort to elicit some sort of response. When I reached forward and took her breasts in my hands and squeezed the nipples, not harshly, I thought I saw a flicker of emotion, perhaps discomfort, but she soon reverted to type. I sighed inwardly and simply continued to saw between her legs.
For myself, I soon arrived at the point at which I wished for the frantically passionate limbs of Winnie, or of some other almost perfect mistress, but was met in my flood instead by the same soft impassivity which I came to think of as being characteristic of Chinese women. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but that does not detract from the validity of the broad generalization. This girl, like many other girls I met in China, seemed to be entirely without passion, and the drug, in spite of the fact that I had followed all instructions given to me with the utmost care, had no effect whatsoever on the intensity of my orgasm.
I was indeed slightly disgusted by the whole affair afterwards. Its passivity, its obvious one-sidedness, struck me as coming very close to the kind of thing I have always been at pains to avoid. For me, love must froth into intensity from “twin rills;” that is why I have always considered prostitution to be sordid.
Those who delivered their speeches on the virtue of drugs were not satisfied. My friend in particular felt that I ought to give it another trial. I did so, but with similar results. In the end, I could see no point in my trying again. Then someone told me that I should have tried cocaine. Once again, giving my advisor the benefit of the doubt, I submitted to the test. The effect was slightly different but, if anything, made me feel even less passionate than I was under opium; it was just as inoperative. Finally, an English doctor who had lived for years in Peking, vaunted the benefits of ether, and in this case I am bound to say I could trace a distinct stimulation of desire. But this good result was offset by the evil effect of the intoxicant itself. For a couple of days afterwards I felt sick and out of sorts. I was unable to work and had no mind at all for love. In conclusion, no drug or poison seems to be worth recommending.