It is not my moral but my aesthetic sense that takes offence, so I ask
Philip whether it is the intensity of his feelings that makes it
impossible for him to discuss his work or his play without continual
reference to the process of perdition and the realm of lost souls; or
whether it is habit. No sooner have I put my question than I am sorry.
There is nothing the young soul is so afraid of as of satire. It can
understand being petted and it can understand being whipped; but the
sting behind the smile, the lash beneath the caress, throws the young
soul into helpless panic. It feels itself baited and knows not whither
it may flee. I have always thought that the worst type of bully is the
teacher in school or in college who indulges a pretty talent for satire
at the expense of his pupils. It is a cowardly and a demoralising
practice. It means not only hitting some one who is powerless to retort,
it means confusing the sense of truth in the adolescent mind. Here is
some one quite grown up who smiles and means to hurt you, who says good
and means bad, who says yes and means no.
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