For an instant I felt something akin to remorse; it seemed as if I had been disloyal to friends who had never failed me in any time of need.

But as I meditated on this strange forgetfulness of mine, I saw that in Arden books have no place and serve no purpose.

Why should one read a translation when the original work lies open and legible before him?
Why should one watch the reflections in the shadowy surface of the lake when the heavens shine above him?
Why should one linger before the picturesque landscape which art has imperfectly transferred to canvas when the scene, with all its elusive play of light and shade, lies outspread before him?
I became conscious that in Arden one lives habitually in the world which books are always striving to portray and interpret; that one sees with his own eyes all that the eyes of the keenest observer have ever seen; that one feels in his own soul all the greatest soul has ever felt.

That which in the outer world most men know only by report, in Arden each one knows for himself.

The stories of travellers cease to interest us when we are at last within the borders of the strange, far country.
Books are, at the best, faint and imperfect transcriptions of Nature and life; when one comes to see Nature as she is with his own eyes, and to enter into the secrets of life, all transcriptions become inadequate.