But
at what point shall we cut the process short? To obtain full
knowledge, we should pass in review all that relates to the act we
propose; should inquire what its remoter consequences will be, and how
it will affect not merely myself, my cousin, my great-grandchild, but
the man in the next street, city, or state. There is no stopping. To
carry conscious verification over a moderate range is slow business.
If on the impulse of occasion we dash off an action unreflectingly,
life will be swift and simple. If we try to anticipate all
consequences of our task it will be slow and endless.
Nor need I dwell on the fatigue such conscious work involves. In
writing a letter, we usually sit down before our paper, our minds
occupied with what we would say. We allow our fingers to stroll of
themselves across the page, and we hardly notice whether they move or
not. If anybody should ask, "How did you write the letter _s?_" we
should be obliged to look on the paper to see. But suppose, instead
of writing in this way, I come to the task to-morrow determined to
superintend all the work consciously. How shall I hold my pen in the
best possible manner? How shape this letter so that each of its curves
gets its exact bulge? How give the correct slant to what is above or
below the line? I will not ask how long a time a letter prepared in
this fashion would require, or whether when written it would be fit to
read, for I wish to fix attention on the exhaustion of the writer.
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