man, for until now I have read scarcely a single book--only "A
Portrait of Man" (a clever enough work in its way), "The Boy Who
Could Play Many Tunes Upon Bells", and "Ivik's Storks". That is
all. But now I have also read "The Station Overseer" in your
little volume; and it is wonderful to think that one may live and
yet be ignorant of the fact that under one's very nose there may
be a book in which one's whole life is described as in a picture.
Never should I have guessed that, as soon as ever one begins to
read such a book, it sets one on both to remember and to consider
and to foretell events. Another reason why I liked this book so
much is that, though, in the case of other works (however clever
they be), one may read them, yet remember not a word of them (for
I am a man naturally dull of comprehension, and unable to read
works of any great importance),--although, as I say, one may read
such works, one reads such a book as YOURS as easily as though it
had been written by oneself, and had taken possession of one's
heart, and turned it inside out for inspection, and were
describing it in detail as a matter of perfect simplicity. Why, I
might almost have written the book myself! Why not, indeed? I can
feel just as the people in the book do, and find myself in
positions precisely similar to those of, say, the character
Samson Virin. In fact, how many good-hearted wretches like Virin
are there not walking about amongst us? How easily, too, it is
all described! I assure you, my darling, that I almost shed tears
when I read that Virin so took to drink as to lose his memory,
become morose, and spend whole days over his liquor; as also that
he choked with grief and wept bitterly when, rubbing his eyes
with his dirty hand, he bethought him of his wandering lamb, his
daughter Dunasha! How natural, how natural! You should read the
book for yourself. The thing is actually alive. Even I can see