He likes to read the news--no papers or magazines come there.

A man likes to know how his parents and brothers and sisters are getting along when he is away, and if they miss him--there he cannot know.

A man likes a pretty house, and pretty furniture, and pretty things, and pretty colors--there he has nothing but naked aridity and sombre colors.

A man likes--name it yourself: whatever it is, it is absent from that place.
From what I could learn, all that a man gets for this is merely the saving of his soul.
It all seems strange, incredible, impossible.

But La Trappe knew the race.