I wonder whether you, reader, were ever thirsty? Probably not. You get a
thirst which is not insatiable. Yours is born of nothing extraordinary;
yours can be satisfied by a gulp or two of water, or perhaps by a
drink--or perhaps two, or perhaps three--of something stronger. The
Chinese coolie's thirst arises from the grilling sun, from a dancing
glare, from hard hauling, struggling with 120 pounds slung over his
shoulders, dangling at the end of a bamboo pole. I have had this thirst
of the Chinese coolie--I know it well. It is born of sheer heat and
sheer perspiration. Every drop of liquid has been wrung out of my body;
I have seemed to have swum in my clothes, and inside my muscles have
seemed to shrink to dry sponge and my bones to dry pith. My substance,
my strength, my self has drained out of me. I have been conscious of
perpetual evaporation and liquefaction. And I have felt that I must stop
and wet myself again. I really _must_ wet myself and swell to life
again. And here we sit at the tea-shop. People come and stare at me, and
wonder what it is. They, too, are thirsty, for they are all coolies and
have the coolie thirst.
I wet myself. I pour in cup after cup, and my body, my self sucks it in,
draws it in as if it were the water of life.
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