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Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 1809-1894

"The Poet at the Breakfast-Table"

That's what
she's probably thinking about.
--She!--said the Master, with a look which it would take at least half a
page to explain to the entire satisfaction of thoughtful readers of both
sexes.
--I paid the respect due to that most significant monosyllable, which, as
the old Rabbi spoke it, with its targum of tone and expression, was not
to be answered flippantly, but soberly, advisedly, and after a pause long
enough for it to unfold its meaning in the listener's mind. For there
are short single words (all the world remembers Rachel's Helas!) which
are like those Japanese toys that look like nothing of any significance
as you throw them on the water, but which after a little time open out
into various strange and unexpected figures, and then you find that each
little shred had a complicated story to tell of itself.
-Yes,--said I, at the close of this silent interval, during which the
monosyllable had been opening out its meanings,--She. When I think of
talking, it is of course with a woman. For talking at its best being an
inspiration, it wants a corresponding divine quality of receptiveness;
and where will you find this but in woman?
The Master laughed a pleasant little laugh,--not a harsh, sarcastic one,
but playful, and tempered by so kind a look that it seemed as if every
wrinkled line about his old eyes repeated, "God bless you," as the
tracings on the walls of the Alhambra repeat a sentence of the Koran.


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