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- 7311
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:09.927Z
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- start_line
- 7273
- text
- dignified, by standing firm on a tripod.”
“A very witty conceit! But have a care, Azzageddi; your theory applies
not to me.”
“Babbalanja,” said Mohi, “you must be the last of the kangaroos.”
“I am, Mohi.”
“But the old fashioned pouch or purse of your grandams?” hinted Media.
“My lord, I take it, that must have been transferred; nowadays our sex
carries the purse.”
“Ha, ha!”
“My lord, why this mirth? Let us be serious. Although man is no longer
a kangaroo, he may be said to be an inferior species of plant. Plants
proper are perhaps insensible of the circulation of their sap: we
mortals are physically unconscious of the circulation of the blood; and
for many ages were not even aware of the fact. Plants know nothing of
their interiors:—three score years and ten we trundle about ours, and
never get a peep at them; plants stand on their stalks:—we stalk on our
legs; no plant flourishes over its dead root:—dead in the grave, man
lives no longer above ground; plants die without food:—so we. And now
for the difference. Plants elegantly inhale nourishment, without
looking it up: like lords, they stand still and are served; and though
green, never suffer from the colic:—whereas, we mortals must forage all
round for our food: we cram our insides; and are loaded down with
odious sacks and intestines. Plants make love and multiply; but excel
us in all amorous enticements, wooing and winning by soft pollens and
essences. Plants abide in one place, and live: we must travel or die.
Plants flourish without us: we must perish without them.”
“Enough Azzageddi!” cried Media. “Open not thy lips till to-morrow.”
- title
- Chunk 5