Author, Author!

The value of rare works is subjective

He said he would write a little each night; and each night he did just that. The days passed, and the pages became a book, then a volume. And he still wrote. Every night, and sometimes in the morning, too, he took up his pen and put down his words: thoughts, worries, discoveries, theories. Words of messiahs and rhetoric of demagogues. Perceptions of nature and the natures of war and love. He wrote, and the shelves filled with his wisdom. He wrote, and a generation passed him by, and an era slipped away. Until, inevitably, his pen scratched no more at the paper, his eyes and philosophies and hunched old prejudices having finally flown to higher skies as well. The shelves of wisdom, pages of true lies and false lives, the writings of ten thousand nights and more! All this he wrote. And of it, no one has ever read a word.