It may not be permissible for a Yellow Editor to break into a Cook County literary fiesta. We dislike to run the risk—but we shall run it.
First we remark that a man living on a desert island needs no books at all.
Reading books is an idle occupation unless you make your reading profitable to other human beings, and that you cannot do on a desert island.
The trouble with many readers is this: They read as though they WERE on a desert island. They sop up literature or facts as a sponge sops up water; then, like human sponges, do nothing with their wisdom. They read for themselves; they read to increase their egotism and self-approval, and for no other purpose. ——
But, after walking into an intellectual parlor above our station in life, it certainly does not become us to be finicky.
We'll tell as quickly as possible what it is that surprises us:
NOT ONE COOK COUNTY THINKER MENTIONS A BOOK ON ASTRONOMY.
A man on a desert island has a little sand, some goats and a few miles of ocean around him—nothing else in sight.
But above him, and on the low plains of the horizon, the great universe is spread out. Vega flashes overhead, beckoning to this little solar system that is rolling on toward her.
The old, benevolent stars look through cold space at our little sun that was not even hatched in their yesterday.