The Reader (n.) at his worst behaves like plundering troops — taking a few things he can use, dirtying and confounding the rest, and reviling the whole.
The Reader (n.) with a thick, clumsy soul torments an author, falling and hurting himself whenever he knocks against anything.
The Reader (n.) of the true kind must have become indifferent, and must never ask whether truth does any good or whether it will be our undoing.
The Reader (n.) when perfect always turns into a monster of courage and curiosity, supple, cunning, cautious, a born adventurer and discoverer who, where he can guess, hates to deduce.
Reader (n.) of the excellent and devoted few, from the twenties on, were always old men.
Reader (n.) at his worst behaves like a looting soldier: he grabs the little he can use, dirties the rest, and slanders the whole.