We are not to know, nor he, why he finds so much of creation unable to fill his need, why he needs so much to perfect nature. 

So let that be. We cannot know him intimately in his quest. Though, at the least, it is possible to see how he tries to feed his unfed, unsatisfied self. 

To create new forms is his work, his fate, no more or less than any other labor that some men and women do. Though he may question his work, eventually he accepts and devotes himself to it. It is a lonely life, one might say a life of his own making, if one did not know his need or obligation. Some think him a misogynist, a freak of an ill-formed childhood, or just a person of distorted taste. 

In giving form to his feelings, he no sooner arrives at a solution than he realizes that this is but one step leading to another, and the

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