The Poet at the Breakfast-TableHolmes, Oliver Wendell
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The Poet at the Breakfast-Table
Holmes, Oliver Wendell
American fiction -- 19th century; Conversation -- Fiction; Poetry
If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself
on the part of others, I should not feel at liberty to indulge my
own aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling to all my
fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and honesty,
I confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and
prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. Some of
these are purely instinctive, for others I can assign a reason. Our
likes and dislikes play so important a part in the Order of Things that
it is well to see on what they are founded.
There are persons I meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half
for my liking. They know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what I was
going to say. Of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a
good deal besides; have read all the books I have read, and in later
editions; have had all the experiences I have been through, and
more-too. In my private opinion every mother's son of them will lie at
any time rather than confess ignorance.
--I have a kind of dread, rather than hatred, of persons with a large
excess of vitality; great feeders, great laughers, great story-tellers,
who come sweeping over their company with a huge tidal wave of animal
spirits and boisterous merriment. I have pretty good spirits myself, and
enjoy a little mild pleasantry, but I am oppressed and extinguished by
these great lusty, noisy creatures,--and feel as if I were a mute at a
funeral when they get into full blast.
--I cannot get along much better with those drooping, languid people,
whose vitality falls short as much as that of the others is in excess. I
have not life enough for two; I wish I had. It is not very enlivening
to meet a fellow-creature whose expression and accents say, “You are the
hair that breaks the camel's back of my endurance, you are the last drop
that makes my cup of woe run over”; persons whose heads drop on one side
like those of toothless infants, whose voices recall the tones in which
our old snuffling choir used to wail out the verses of:
“Life is the time to serve the Lord.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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