[This one I have omitted the name of a character--I fear too easy if I left the name. Everything else is the same, but the name is now X. And .... indicates where I skipped some lines. Happy Tuesday!]
Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:
--And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister? A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life....
--Upon my word, it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.
--Which of the two, X asked, would have banished me from his commonwealth?
Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than the red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.