The one goes for the sake of formality, and the other reads the
book so as not to be in arrear. For La Bruyere was quite right when he
said: _All the wit in the world is lost upon him who has none_. The
whole range of thought of a man of talent, or of a genius, compared
with the thoughts of the common man, is, even when directed to objects
essentially the same, like a brilliant oil-painting, full of life,
compared with a mere outline or a weak sketch in water-color.
All this is part of the reward of genius, and compensates him for a
lonely existence in a world with which he has nothing in common and
no sympathies. But since size is relative, it comes to the same thing
whether I say, Caius was a great man, or Caius has to live amongst
wretchedly small people: for Brobdingnack and Lilliput vary only
in the point from which they start. However great, then, however
admirable or instructive, a long posterity may think the author
of immortal works, during his lifetime he will appear to his
contemporaries small, wretched, and insipid in proportion. This is
what I mean by saying that as there are three hundred degrees from the
base of a tower to the summit, so there are exactly three hundred
from the summit to the base. Great minds thus owe little ones some
indulgence; for it is only in virtue of these little minds that they
themselves are great.
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