Here, James is reflecting on the idealised perfect societies of writers of fiction – mostly socialists, such as Edward Bellamy (whose Looking Backward, 2000-1887 was a huge bestseller upon its publication in the US in 1888) and William Morris (who wrote a socialist utopia novel, News from Nowhere, in 1890). Fourier’s and Bellamy’s and Morris’s utopias should all be outdone, and millions kept permanently happy on the one simple condition that a certain lost soul on the far-off edge of things should lead a life of lonely torture, what except a sceptical and independent sort of emotion can it be which would make us immediately feel, even though an impulse arose within us to clutch at the happiness so offered, how hideous a thing would be its enjoyment when deliberately accepted as the fruit of such a bargain? Or if the hypothesis were offered us of a world in which Messrs.
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