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Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.
In the world you would always be on the fringe of success, and you would be destroyed by your failure.
And the consciousness of his inadequacy distressed him so greatly that the sense of it grew habitual, as much a part of him as the stoop of his shoulders.
He was forty-two years old, and he could see nothing before him that he wished to enjoy and little behind him that he cared to remember.
