Charming! Could even
the author herself not admire them? Perhaps. Poor woman!--I had scored
now, scored so perfectly that I felt myself to be almost a brute while
I poked off the loosened black outer pages and led the fire on to
pages that were but pale brown.
These were quickly devoured. But it seemed to me that whenever I left
the fire to forage for itself it made little headway. I pushed the
book over on its side. The flames closed on it, but presently, licking
their lips, fell back, as though they had had enough. I took the tongs
and put the book upright again, and raked it fore and aft. It seemed
almost as thick as ever. With poker and tongs I carved it into two,
three sections--the inner pages flashing white as when they were sent
to the binders. Strange! Aforetime, a book was burnt now and again in
the market-place by the common hangman. Was he, I wondered, paid by
the hour? I had always supposed the thing quite easy for him--a bright
little, brisk little conflagration, and so home. Perhaps other books
were less resistant than this one? I began to feel that the critics
were more right than they knew. Here was a book that had indeed an
intense vitality, and an immense vitality. It was a book that would
live--do what one might. I vowed it should not. I subdivided it,
spread it, redistributed it.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
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