I’m not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy.
Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?
A book may be compared to your neighbour: if it be good it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.
He wrapped himself in quotations – as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of Emperors.
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