which is part and parcel of their intellectual dishonesty. The inevitable running up against this “innocence” everywhere constitutes the most distasteful feature of the somewhat dangerous business which a modern psychologist has to undertake: it is a part of our great danger⁠—it is a road which perhaps leads us straight to the great nausea⁠—I know quite well the purpose which all modern books will and can serve (granted that they last, which I am not afraid of, and granted equally that there is to be at some future day a generation with a more rigid, more severe, and healthier taste)⁠—the function which all modernity generally will serve with posterity: that of an emetic⁠—and this by reason of its moral sugariness and falsity, its ingrained feminism, which it is pleased to call “Idealism,” and at any rate believes to be idealism. Our cultured men of today, our “good” men, do not lie⁠—that is true; but it does not