His death was overshadowed by JFK’s death on the same day in 1963.
I am the product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.
Those of us who have been true readers all our life seldom fully recognize the enormous extension of our being which we owe to authors. We realize it best when we talk with an unliterary friend. He may be full of goodness and good sense but he inhabits a tiny world. In it, we should be suffocated. The man who is contented to be only himself is in a prison. My own eyes are not good enough for me. I will see through those of others.