has dreamed of a special (literary) fame and of making for himself a rank among the world's dignitaries by such means, to slip aside out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recognised, and to find how utterly devoid of significance beyond that circle is all he achieves and all he aims at.
He might fail from want of skill or strength, but deep in his sombre soul he vowed that it should never be from want of heart.
'Every durable bond between human beings is founded in or heightened by some clement of competition.'—R. L. Stevenson.
'All natural talk is a festival of ostentation.'—R. L. Stevenson.
'No human being ever spoke of scenery for two minutes together, which makes me suspect we have too much of it in literature. The weather is regarded as the very nadir and scoff of conversational topics.'—R. L. Stevenson.
