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baths, and the like. And indeed, these very men—since Athenaeus says that baths are the remedies for the wretched—have need to wash away with their own baths not only the foul soot of coals from their faces, but also the dense mist of ignorance from their fantastic brains. I confess here, however, that they do not labor in vain to ignite their kitchen fire. And why not? For he who is blind even at the most splendid and illustrious hour of the noon sun, according to Suidas, is blinder than the mole itself. Therefore, so that he may see, his kitchen fire must be kindled by whatever means. But I do not wish to pass over their praise entirely, since whatever they distill is done entirely with prudence and reason; for all their distillation of any matter from the gourd of their head draws all reason and intellect along with it into the receptive glass. Far be it, however, to scorn their fixations, since these are not done without success. For although nothing can ever be fixed by them in a coal fire—which indeed I would easily concede—it must not be denied that these very artists are fixed in their own madness by these very fixative operations with a true and constant fixation. But what must be said about the separation of salt, sulfur, and mercury usually performed by them manually? Indeed, this also succeeds most happily; for while they separate such salt, sulfur, and mercury apart, they separate themselves from Salt, and liberate themselves so much that they remain insipid and tasteless. That they themselves inveigh against true seekers of nature with violent and lying words and quarrels is not to be wondered at; for since they are entirely accustomed to a violent art, they must necessarily be violent against the genuine process of nature. But you, inasmuch as truth is the daughter of Jove, after these exhausted