The autobiography of Mark Twain has the first 200 pages consisting of an introduction, "scraps" as he referred to them, and pieces not meant to be included in the final rendering which starts on page 201. The intro and beyond is not dull pap where eyes glaze with boredom, but instead whets the appetite in a most delicious manner for the words of Mr. Clemens that will soon follow.
Rather than consuming them at my usual lightning pace I have purposefully slowed my eyes and my mind. I do not devour, I linger as if it were a gourmet meal. One small bite at a time allowed to rest a bit on my tongue, spices mixing as salivation is activated, held in delight for an extra moment and then swallowed. Residual savoring as the next forkful of words enter.
Reading masters of wordsmithing is almost like reaching for orgasm, such is the transcendent nature of the experience. With a happy sigh I now return to my ecstatic meal.
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