CHAPTER XIX 



FABRE'S WRITINGS 



MY study-table, the size of a pocket-handker- 

 chief, occupied on the right by the inkstand 

 a penny bottle and on the left by the open exercise- 

 book, gives me just the room which I need to wield 

 the pen. I love that little piece of furniture, one of 

 the first acquisitions of my early married life. It 

 is easily moved where you wish: in front of the 

 window, when the sky is cloudy; into the discreet 

 light of a corner, when the sun is tiresome. In 

 winter it allows you to come close to the hearth, 

 where a log is blazing. 



Poor little walnut board, I have been faithful to 

 you for half a century and more. Ink-stained, cut 

 and scarred with the pen-knife, you know how to 

 lend your support to my prose as you once did 

 to my equations. This variation in employment 

 leaves you indifferent; your patient back extends 

 the same welcome to my formulae of algebra and 

 the formulas of thought. I cannot boast this placid- 

 ity; I find that the change has not increased my 

 peace of mind: the hunt for ideas troubles the 

 brain even more than does the hunt for the roots 

 of an equation. 



You would never recognise me, little friend, if 

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