death.

And thus, as I say, the reading that is done in such a mood has little
of precise acquisition or definite attainment about it; it is a desire
rather to feed and console the spirit--to enter the region in which it
seems better to wonder than to know, to aspire rather than to define,
to hope rather than to be satisfied. A spirit which walks expectantly
along this path grows to learn that the secret of such happiness as we
can attain lies in simplicity and courage, in sincerity and
loving-kindness; it grows more and more averse to material ambitions
and mean aims; it more and more desires silence and recollection and
contemplation. In this mood, the words of the wise fall like the
tolling of sweet, grave bells upon the soul, the dreams of poets come
like music heard at evening from the depth of some enchanted forest,
wafted over a wide water; we know not what instrument it is whence the
music wells, by what fingers swept, by what lips blown; but we know
that there is some presence there that is sorrowful or glad, who has
power to translate his dream into the concord of sweet sounds. Such a
mood need not withdraw us from life, from toil, from kindly
relationships, from deep affections; but it will rather send us back to
life with a renewed and joyful zest, with a desire to discern the true
quality of beautiful things, of fair thoughts, of courageous hopes, of
wise designs. It will make us tolerant and forgiving, patient with
stubbornness and prejudice, simple in conduct, sincere in word, gentle
in deed; with pity for weakness, with affection for the lonely and the
desolate, with admiration for all that is noble and serene and strong.

Those who read in such a spirit will tend to resort more and more to
large and wise and beautiful books, to press the sweetness out of old
familiar thoughts, to look more for warmth and loftiness of feeling
than for elaborate and artful expression. They will value more and more
books that speak to the soul, rather than books that appeal to the ear
and to the mind. They will realize that it is through wisdom and force
and nobility that books retain their hold upon the hearts of men, and
not by briskness and colour and epigram. A mind thus stored may have
little grasp of facts, little garniture of paradox and jest; but it
will be full of compassion and hope, of gentleness and joy. . . .

Well, this thought has taken me a long way from the College library,
where the old books look some