But I go to my library for information; the
business of a writer is to collect and arrange facts; a book, as I
apprehend it, should be--a book. That is my quarrel with this Tunisian
literature; many of the things that have been written about the country
are not books at all; while others are full of mistakes. Look at these two
volumes, for instance! Impressionistic realism, I suppose they would call
it, scrawled down by an excitable female journalist who, I am sorry to
say, has created quite a rage for European and American lady tourists
among these Arabs, to the great discredit of our civilization. Read them,
Monsieur, as a warning example, and perhaps you will give me your
Bordereau instead; there may be something in it, after all."
I gladly make the exchange, and regard the transaction in the light of an
omen, an epoch. I have been craving for something different from the facts
of Bordereau, who has been my companion all these days. A solid little
piece of work, by the way, which often set me wondering whether our
British public would care to pay four shillings for a technical account of
the climate, history and natural products of some remote Egyptian oasis.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102