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What we call literature is


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  [begin leaf 1 recto]

What we call Literature is but a the blind moist and wobbling cub, new just born and its eyes not open yet in many days.—I am ^You are ana living man, and think; in that alone is a more heightless and fathomless wonder than all the productions of letters and arts in all the years ^nations and periods of this earth.—

  [begin leaf 1 verso]
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