Socrates: Let us begin, then, with a picture of our citizens’ manner of life, with the provision we have made for them. They will be producing corn and wine, and making clothes and shoes. When they have built their houses, they will mostly work without their coats or shoes in summer, and in winter will be well shod and clothed. For their food, they will prepare flour and barley-meal for kneading and baking, and set out a grand spread of loaves and cakes on rushes or fresh leaves. Then they will lie on beds of myrtle-boughs and bryony and make merry with their children, drinking their wine after the feast with garlands on their heads and singing the praises of the gods. So they will live pleasantly together; and a prudent fear of poverty or war will keep them from begetting children beyond their means.

Glaucon: You seem to expect your citizens to feast on dry bread.

Socrates: True, I said; I forgot that they will have something to give it a relish, salt, no doubt, and olives, and cheese, and country stews of roots and vegetables. And for desert we will give them figs and peas and beans; and they shall roast myrtle-berries and acorns at the fire, while they sip their wine. Leading such a healthy life in peace, they will naturally come to a good old age, and leave their children to live after them in the same manner.

By the time our “scherm” was finished the moon was coming up, and our dinner of giraffe steaks and roasted marrow-bones was ready. How we enjoyed those marrow-bones, though it was rather a job to crack them! I know no greater luxury than giraffe marrow, unless it is elephant’s heart, and we had that on the morrow.

The floor of the cloister itself was covered with thousands of identical, horn-shaped, nine-sided tiles that had been joined together with machine-tool precision into a nonrepeating double-spiral pattern that was giving me motion sickness just looking at it. I turned my back on this and looked at a loaf of bread that was resting on the table. This was so fresh that steam was gushing out of the end — Arsibalt, an infamous heel-filcher, had already got to it. The loaf had been made by braiding several ropes of dough together in a nontrivial pattern that, I feared, had deep knot-theoretical significance and was named after some Elkhazgian Saunt.

Demme, sir!” exclaimed Titmouse, starting aside with an offended air— “d’ye think I don’t know how to manage a sword? By all that’s tremendous"— and plucking the taper weapon out of its scabbard, he waved it over his head; and throwing himself into the first position — he had latterly paid a good deal of attention to fencing — and with rather an excited air, he went through several of the preliminary movements. ‘Twas a subject for a painter, and exhibited a very striking spectacle — as an instance of power silently concentrated, and ready to be put forth upon an adequate occasion. The tailor and the valet, who stood separate from each other and at a safe and respectful distance from Mr. Titmouse, gazed with silent admiration at him.

His self-conceit was so intense, that it consumed every vestige of sense he had about him. He stood in solitary grandeur upon the lofty pillar of his pride, inaccessible to ridicule, and insensible indeed of its approach, like vanity “on a monument smiling at” scorn. Indeed,

“His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.”