possibly be found—men good for nothing that demands reflection, unless immediately attainable through those superficial combinations of figures which are rather a matter of routine than of thought.
I forget the greater part of what I have read, but nevertheless it contributes to the sustenance of my mind.
The man who is at a loss to discuss his own subject extempore, who is obliged to refer to his notes or have recourse to his library, is undoubtedly a sham expert. Nowadays we have an art of becoming famous unknown to the ancients. They became so by means of genius; but the larger number of our celebrated scholars are paste, not precious stones. Truly their fame will not go very far; their works will be forgotten, like Cicero’s poetry, which was not to be kept alive even by a prose made for eternity.
What makes it so enjoyable to write a novel is that one is thus never at a loss for a spokesman ready to give voice in his own person to all those opinions which one would now and then like to air in the world.
Someone once said of Tobias Mayer that even he himself did not know that he knew so much—an observation in which there is certainly a great deal of truth. This is the true way to do great things in
