I have even been told that there are systems of exercise
which show how physical perfection may be attained by scientifically
manipulating, for fifteen minutes every day, a couple of fountain pens
and a paper cutter. But I cannot reconcile myself to such methods
because of the confusion they introduce into the world of common things.
A table is no longer something to write upon or to eat upon, but
something to lie down upon while one flings out his arms and legs fifty
times in four contrary directions. A broom-stick is an instrument for
strengthening the shoulder muscles. When I see a transom, I find myself
estimating the number of times I could chin it.
The intimate connection between the hygienic life and the temptation to
tell lies is a delicate subject to touch upon; but the facts may as well
be brought out now as later. People of otherwise irreproachable conduct
will lose all sense of truthfulness when they speak of physical culture
and fresh air. They will exaggerate the number of inches they keep their
bedroom windows raised in midwinter; they will quote ridiculous
estimates of the doctors' bills they have saved; they will represent
themselves as being in the most incredibly perfect health.
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