He read at wine, he read in bed, He read aloud, had he the breath, His every thought was with the dead, And so he read himself to death.

To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

He had read much, if one considers his long life; but his contemplation was much more than his reading. He was wont to say that if he had read as much as other men he should have known no more than other men.

He had read much, if one considers his long life; but his contemplation was much more then his reading. He was wont to say that if he had read as much as other men, he should have knowne no more than other men.

Captain Littlepage had overset his mind with too much reading.

Nightingale has always been reluctant to let me loose on the library and I must have frowned or something because he went on, “My worry with you, Peter, is not what you would learn but that, should you go into the library, you might never emerge again.”

I now remembered that Mrs. Todd had told me one day that Captain Littlepage had overset his mind with too much reading.

Many years later he looked through one of my books and said,

In short, our gentleman became so caught up in reading that he spent his nights reading from dusk till dawn and his days reading from sunrise to sunset, and so with too little sleep and too much reading his brains dried up, causing him to lose his mind. His fantasy filled with everything he had read in his books, enchantments as well as combats, battles, challenges, wounds, courtings, loves, torments, and other impossible foolishness, and he became so convinced in his imagination of the truth of all the countless grandiloquent and false inventions he read that for him no history in the world was truer.

The place had an overpowering presence of literature and you couldn’t help but lose your passion for dumbness.

He genuinely looked terrified. The poor man, he's actually seen the books. In England we have this one-eyed Scottish idiot.

In short, our gentleman became so immersed in his reading that he spent whole nights from sundown to sunup and his days from dawn to dusk in poring over his books, until, finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind. He filled his imagination with everything he had read, with enchantments, knightly encounters, battles, challenges, wounds, with tales of love and its torments, and all sorts of impossible things, and as a result had come to believe that all these fictitious happenings were true; they were more real to him than anything else in the world.

Serenado um pouco, abriu o livro e retomou a leitura. Esqueceu-se de si próprio por completo e bem podia então dizer que morrera. Sonhava no outro, ou melhor, o outro era um sonho que nele se sonhava, uma criatura da sua infinita solidão. Até que despertou com uma terrível pontada no peito. A personagem do livro acabara de lhe dizer de novo: «Devo repetir ao leitor que comigo morrerá.». E desta vez o efeito foi espantoso. O trágico leitor perdeu o conhecimento naquele seu leito de sofrimento espiritual; deixou de sonhar no outro e deixou de sonhar-se a si mesmo. E quando voltou a si, lançou fora o livro, apagou a luz e procurou adormecer, deixar de sonhar. Impossível! De quando em quando tinha de levantar-se para beber água; ocorreu-lhe que bebia no Sena, no espelho. «Estarei louco? - repetia -. Certamente que não, porque quando uma pessoa se pergunta se está louca é porque não está...». Levantou-se, pegou-lhe o fogo na lareira e queimou o livro, voltando em seguida a deitar-se. E conseguiu finalmente adormecer.

I thought you were going to say I was dead,' I said.

'I just couldn't kill you off,' the boy said.

'Thank you, Huck.