Of all those books I remember by name only "Robinson Crusoe." I think I preferred the stories to the poems, though poetry was good to recite, walking up and down, like Cousin Hirshel.

That was my introduction to secular literature, but I did not understand it at the time.
When I had exhausted the books, I began on the old volumes of a Russian periodical which I found on a shelf in my room.

There was a high stack of these paper volumes, and I was so hungry for books that I went at them greedily, fearing that I might not get through before I had to return to Polotzk.
I read every spare minute of the day, and most of the night.

I scarcely ever stopped at night until my lamp burned out.

Then I would creep into bed beside Dinke, but often my head burned so from excitement that I did not sleep at once.