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  and a quiet library, an intellectual wife perhaps and no children,—an apartment somewhere in a back street or lives alone or with his mother or sister—

I wonder, my townspeople, if Artsybashev looks upon himself the more concernedly or succeeds any better than I in laying the world.

I wonder which is the bigger fool in his own mind.

These are shining topics my townspeople but— hardly of great moment. 

A PRELUDE

I know only the bare rocks of today. In these lies my brown sea-weed,— green quartz veins bent through the wet shale; in these lie my pools left by the tide— quiet, forgetting waves; 