But in a kind of
quibbling self-justification I recalled that I had bought Parnassus
and all it contained, "lock, stock, barrel and bung" as Andrew used
to say. And so....
The notebook was full of little jottings, written in pencil in
the Professor's small, precise hand. The words were rubbed
and soiled, but plainly legible. I read this:
I don't suppose Bock or Peg get lonely, but by the bones of Ben
Gunn, I do. Seems silly when Herrick and Hans Andersen and Tennyson
and Thoreau and a whole wagonload of other good fellows are riding
at my back. I can hear them all talking as we trundle along. But
books aren't a _substantial_ world after all, and every now and then
we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships. I've been
totally alone now for eight years--except for Runt, and he might be
dead and never say so. This wandering about is fine in its way, but
it must come to an end some day. A man needs to put down a root
somewhere to be really happy.
What absurd victims of contrary desires we are! If a man is settled
in one place he yearns to wander; when he wanders he yearns to have
a home.
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