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XI.
- The Reader. “You need not hurt me,”
said the book; “you will only get
less for me second hand, and I did not write myself.” “That is true,” said the
reader. “My quarrel is with your
author.” “Ah, well,” said the
book, “you need not buy his rant.” “That is true,” said the
reader. “But I thought him such a
cheerful writer.” “I find him so,” said the
book. “You must be differently
made from me,” said the reader. “Let me tell you a
fable,” said the book. “There were two
men wrecked upon a desert island; one of them made believe he was at
home, the
other admitted —” “Oh, I know your kind of
fable,” said the reader. “They both
died.” “And so they did,” said
the book. “No doubt of that. And
everybody else.” “That is true,” said the
reader. “Push it a little further
for this once. And when they were all dead?” “They were in God’s
hands, the same as before,” said the
book. “Not much to boast of, by
your account,” cried the reader. “Who is impious now?”
said the book. And the reader put him on the fire.
And loathes the iron face of God. |