The Reader (n.) rides away from the author enthralled by one thought: like the king whose hundred swains dwindled to fifteen and then none by the bridge at Ribe — but for the opposite reason, that I have not budged from the spot.
Reader (n.) grow into writers, as Hamann says: out of children grow people, out of virgins brides, out of readers writers.
The Reader (n.) worth writing for is like a bird that spots a hidden little blossom in the great forest, flies down, and carries it off.
The Reader (n.) addressed as that individual is reached blindfold, unknown in name and place, yet he is the author's hope, joy and pride.
The Reader (n.) of the genuine kind is rare — who today would waste an instant on the ludicrous thought that being a good reader is an art?