"It is not, I apprehend, a healthy kind of mental occupation to devote ourselves too exclusively to the study of individual men and women. If the person under examination be one's self, the result is pretty certain to be diseased action of the heart, almost before we can snatch a second glance. Or if we take the freedom to put a friend under our microscope, we thereby insulate him from many of his true relations, magnify his peculiarities, inevitably tear him into parts, and of course patch him very clumsily together again. What wonder, then, should we be frightened by the aspect of a monster, which, after all,--though we can point to every feature of his deformity in the real personage,--may be said to have been created mainly by ourselves."And to think that some people call reading a waste of time...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
with the speed reading that is necessary to do when you're an English major, are the lyrical gems that often get disregarded, or blown right past. Like this one, from Hawthorne's Blithedale Romance: