[Wyndham] Lewis confronts modern society with the trained eye of a painter to whom the cut of every garment, every gesture, every contour is a richly expressive language. However, the modern man has long lost the use of his eyes. He only has his ears and those for the Napoleonic and romantic thunder of Beethoven, the turgid and Dionysiac megalomania of Wagner, the erotic day-dreaming of Tchaikovsky, or the tom-tom and African bottom-wagging of swing calling to rut. With Dr. Coué-like repetition we hear on every hand: “This isn’t a war, it’s a revolution.” “We live in an age of transition.” “Things will be different after the war.” “This won’t be the last war.” Whether spoken by the responsible or the moronic, these remarks, and countless others like them, have no meaning. They are spoken in a trance of inattention while the reason is in permanent abeyance. They are typical of men who no longer understand the world they have made and which, as robots, they operate day by day.