Pure, clear red is what no soul can pass by.
It is fundamental force.
It does things.
It is the colour of the heart's blood—the inner fire of the earth.
No song—no picture—no music can be vital without red, and what it represents.
It is the dull, muddy shades of red—the passion tinged with selfishness—the fire where sulphurous smoke poisons the smothering smoke—the dulling, clogging mixtures, which are disheartening to work with.
It is never the fearless villain you dread—it is the sneak—the selfish coward.
His personal note is a blur of sound, and his colour muddy red.
Get him once to be frankly what he is, and there is hope for him.
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