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Updated: May 8, 2025
But, frankly, do you suppose I came all this way over so many hills to talk economics? Very far from it! LECTOR. I thought you said you were not going to talk economics?
The next morning with daylight I continued the road to Lucca, and of that also I will say nothing. LECTOR. Why on earth did you write this book? AUCTOR. For my amusement. LECTOR. And why do you suppose I got it?
For you, probably, Death will only come when you die. I have to live with him as well. I shall smoulder for years, you will be carried to heaven, like Enoch, in a beautiful lightning. 'A simple child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What can it know of Death? That's you, my dear Lector, for all your forty years.
AUCTOR. Why, I would leave them alone; but if I had to treat of them I will show you how I would do it. Let us have a dialogue about this road from Moutier. LECTOR. By all means. AUCTOR. What a terrible thing it is to miss one's sleep. I can hardly bear the heat of the road, and my mind is empty! LECTOR. Why, you have just slept in a wood! AUCTOR. Yes, but that is not enough.
In church music, the lector ceased to recite the psalm as a solo and the faithful divided into two choirs, united in the refrain Gloria Patri. With us, the antiphon generally is a verse or verses from Scripture, recited before and after each psalm.
Tell me, Lector, had this man any adventures? LECTOR. None that I know of. AUCTOR. Had he opinions? LECTOR. Yes. I forgot to tell you he was a Unionist. He spoke two foreign languages badly. He often went abroad to Assisi, Florence, and Boulogne... He left 7,623 pounds 6s. 8d., and a house and garden at Sutton. His wife lives there still. AUCTOR. Oh!
'He said, "I believe in Eternal Life," As he threw his life away What need to hoard? He could well afford To squander his mortal day. With Eternity his, what need to care? A sort of immortal millionaire. LECTOR. I am glad to be reminded, Scriptor, that you are a poet, for the line of your argument had almost made me forget it. One expects other views from a poet.
I know whole quarters of the towns of that life where they have never heard of Virtus or Verecundia or Pietas. LECTOR. Then AUCTOR. Alas! alas! Dear Lector, in these houses there is no honest dust.
LECTOR. Precisely; I would say a plain thing in a plain way. AUCTOR. So you think one can say a plain thing in a plain way? You think that words mean nothing more than themselves, and that you can talk without ellipsis, and that customary phrases have not their connotations? You think that, do you?
Well, as I was saying, this Difficulty of Beginning is but one of three, and is Inexplicable, and is in the Nature of Things, and it is very especially noticeable in the Art of Letters. LECTOR. It comes earlier in some books than in others. AUCTOR. As you say... And finally there is the Difficulty of Ending. LECTOR. I do not see how there can be any difficulty in ending a book.
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