Once when I was ten years old I read a magnificent book. It was a story of human life. True or false, that which is said of anyone often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do.
If you happen to have read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's book about Sherlock Holmes, you may remember this quote :
Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outr´e results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.
I think it is a truth universally acknowledged that life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. So long as the great problems of the century are unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the world;—in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance and poverty exist on earth, so we have to be strong, to be brilliant and survive.