gazed in wonder, I perceived in the garden beyond a great orange tree, its branches weighted down with fruit. It was strongly closed in on all sides by a fence. This broke the spell, and I thought to myself, “If only that tree had not been there!”
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It is a joyful thing indeed to hold intimate converse with a man after one’s own heart, chatting without reserve about things of interest or the fleeting topics of the world; but such, alas, are few and far between. Not that one desires a companion who will sit opposite and never utter a word in contradiction—one might as well be alone. Far better in hours of loneliness the company of one who, while he will listen with respect to your views, will disagree a little, and argue, saying “Yes, that is so, but … ,” or “For this reason such and such is the case.”
And yet, with those who are not of the same way of thinking or are contentious, a man can discuss only things of passing interest, for the truth is there must not be any wide gulf between bosom friends.
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To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations—such is a pleasure beyond compare.
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It wakes one up to go away from home for a time, no matter whither. Exploring and rambling about the countryside you come upon a host of unwonted sights in rustic spots and mountain hamlets. You get a messenger to take letters to the capital, and you write and say “Do not forget to send me so-and-so at the next opportunity.” All this is in its way amusing. Of course you have a thousand things to think of in such a place.
Pleasant also to slip away and go into retreat in some mountain temple.
