Autobiography of Anthony Trollope by Anthony Trollope
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Anthony Trollope >> Autobiography of Anthony Trollope
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For what remains to me of life I trust for my happiness still
chiefly to my work--hoping that when the power of work be over with
me, God may be pleased to take me from a world in which, according
to my view, there can be no joy; secondly, to the love of those who
love me; and then to my books. That I can read and be happy while
I am reading, is a great blessing. Could I remember, as some men
do, what I read, I should have been able to call myself an educated
man. But that power I have never possessed. Something is always
left,--something dim and inaccurate,--but still something sufficient
to preserve the taste for more. I am inclined to think that it is
so with most readers.
Of late years, putting aside the Latin classics, I have found
my greatest pleasure in our old English dramatists,--not from any
excessive love of their work, which often irritates me by its want
of truth to nature, even while it shames me by its language,--but
from curiosity in searching their plots and examining their character.
If I live a few years longer, I shall, I think, leave in my copies
of these dramatists, down to the close of James I., written criticisms
on every play. No one who has not looked closely into it knows how
many there are.
Now I stretch out my hand, and from the further shore I bid adieu
to all who have cared to read any among the many words that I have
written.
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