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Updated: May 24, 2025
"We of the nineteenth century" have a certain way of our own, however, of enjoying that most rarely fascinating class of literary productions known as stories, a critical, perhaps over-intellectual, way, but still sufficing, it is comfortable to know, to keep the story at very near its ancient dignity in the realm of letters.
That was the flaw in an over-intellectual man. The mind was too alert, too restless, dogging the steps of the heart like a spy, troubling the heart with an eternal uneasiness. But she could trust where she loved. Maurice was open as a boy in these early days in the garden of paradise. He danced the tarantella while she watched him, then threw himself down beside her, laughing, to rest.
Caswell took a deep gulp of air and reminded himself that he didn't really want to kill anyone. It was not right to kill people. The authorities would lock him up, his friends wouldn't understand, his mother would never have approved. But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirely without force. The simple fact remained he wanted to kill Magnessen.
Their spirit is closer akin to unlettered humanity than to the over-intellectual and sophisticated products of the schools. Of course "roughs and little children" can make nothing of "Leaves of Grass," but unless the trained reader has that fund of fresh, simple, wholesome nature, and the love for real things, which unlettered humanity possesses, he will make nothing of it either.
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