I loved Robert Louis Stevenson’s An Apology for Idlers, but if I am allowed to march to my grave loathing a passage, it will be this one:
Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life. It seems a pity to sit, like the Lady of Shallott, peering into a mirror, with your back turned on all the bustle and glamour of reality.
Look at me, full of stabby disagreement. And denial.