The Man Who Was Thursday — книга для чтения (C1)

place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not " artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face that young man was not really a poet ; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher ; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-Uke head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology ; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself ? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded ; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.