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"And why do you think that Communist and Fascist ideas are alike?”
“When did I mention ideas?” Houston asked scornfully. “Ideas are just so much froth on the top of a mug of beer, my dear boy. Men are inventing ideas every day to justify for themselves and others their actions and needs. What makes these three men akin is the identity of the impulses in their hearts—”
Every time he thought that he was going mad, he met somebody else who had already gone mad, but in a nice, sweet sort of way.
He had lied, killed, and fled to get shunt of his old hated consciousness and now he was dismayed to find it redoubled in its density and still with him. He had merely shifted his cares from without to within him, from that which he could deny to that which he could not. Imprisoned he was in a state of consciousness that was so infatuated by its own condition that it could not dominate itself; so swamped was he by himself with himself that he could not break forth from behind the bars of that self to claim himself.
