He had always been a man with a singularly small reflective gift.
Self-examination--introspection of any sort--were odious to him.

He lived on stimulus from outside, attracted or repelled, amused or interested, bored or angry, as the succession of events or impressions might dictate.

To collect beautiful things was a passion with him, and he was proud of the natural taste and instinct, which generally led him right.

But for 'aesthetics'-- the philosophy of art--he had nothing but contempt.

The volatile, restless mind escaped at once from the concentration asked of it; and fell back on what the Buddhist calls 'Maia,' the gay and changing appearances of things, which were all he wanted.