The spinning wheel and little rattling ball ground something down in those who bet and watched, and they were pleased to feel it ground away because it was so precious that they loathed it, and loved to see others destroy it too. I’ve since discussed this with a clever man who says the precious thing has many names. Poor people call it money; priests, the soul; the Germans call it will and poets, love. He called it freedom, for that makes men feel to blame for what they do. Men hate that feeling, so want it crushed and killed. I am no man. To me the place stank like a Roman game where tortured
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