"
So the traveller sat down and shut the book in which he had begun to
write and said:
"Well and good. Do you write about your country, the land you have
lived in so long and know so well, and we will see what we shall see."
So the people of the country--or their scribes, a most gifted
company--began the task of describing that which they knew and loved,
and had lived in and with since birth. And after they were through
they took the fruits of their joint labours to an assemblage of kings
in a far-off place.
And the kings said, after they had read:
"This is beautiful literature, but what is the country like,--that of
which they write?"
So one of their chamberlains, who was a plain soul, said sensibly:
"Your Majesties, there is only one fault to find with the book written
by these people about their country, and that is that they know it too
well to describe it well."
Therefore one of the kings said, "How can that be truth? For what we
are close to we must see more clearly than others who view it from
afar.
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