Biffen purposely urged these
discussions as far as possible, and doubtless they benefited
Reardon for the time; but the defeated novelist could not be
induced to undertake another practical illustration of his own
views. Occasionally he had an impulse to plan a story, but an
hour's turning it over in his mind sufficed to disgust him. His
ideas seemed barren, vapid; it would have been impossible for him
to write half a dozen pages, and the mere thought of a whole book
overcame him with the dread of insurmountable difficulties,
immeasurable toil.
In time, however, he was able to read. He had a pleasure in
contemplating the little collection of sterling books that alone
remained to him from his library; the sight of many volumes would
have been a weariness, but these few--when he was again able to
think of books at all--were as friendly countenances. He could
not read continuously, but sometimes he opened his Shakespeare,
for instance, and dreamed over a page or two. From such glimpses
there remained in his head a line or a short passage, which he
kept repeating to himself wherever he went; generally some
example of sweet or sonorous metre which had a soothing effect
upon him.
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