Eggs and Ego.

Art is Man's method of expressing Man's idea of what he isn't. No man can ever be what he thinks he is, because he could never think he was what he thinks he is if he were what he thinks he is. He is yoked to his ego. There are various kinds of ego as there are eggs. The most virulent variety is the breakfast ego; it asserts itself at a time when its victims are suffering a mental and moral metamorphosis from mattress to materialism. Next in order of odium is the new-laid ego which, although as free from pin-feathers as a moth ball, and devoid of other manifestations of mental maturity, crows in crepus-culous cramp in imitation of a full-fledged fowl; this form of ego is chicken-fever at its worst. The hard-boiled ego is so tough that it turns the edge of its own senses and survives by sheer force of numbness. Among other such products of sigh-chology are the shop ego, the addled ego, the cracked ego, the fried ego (the fried ego and the stewed ego constitute a double-yolker), the scrambled ego, and the half-backed custard or embryo ego.

Most egos are an exaggeration of the truth, and if every man told every other man what he thought of himself there would be enough mutual disrespect in the world to create a brotherhood of love. Some men put all their ego into one basket, while others go broody and sit on it.