I think reading a good book makes one modest. When
you see the marvellous insight into human nature which a truly
great book shows, it is bound to make you feel small--like}
looking at the Dipper on a clear night, or seeing the winter
sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And
anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you.
"What do you mean by a great book?" said the Professor--I
mean, I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could
see him sitting there, with his corncob pipe in his hand and
that quizzical little face of his looking sharply at me.
Somehow, talking with the Professor had made me think. He was
as good as one of those Scranton correspondence courses, I do
believe, and no money to pay for postage.
Well, I said to the Professor--to myself I mean--let's see:
what _is_ a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James's
(he's Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had
a kind of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort
them out properly). A good book ought to have something
simple about it. And, like Eve, it ought to come from
somewhere near the third rib: there ought to be a heart
beating in it.
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