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The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the truth of wealth and of poverty,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful.
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them.
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], called it his truth,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], and tried to live his life by it,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn't, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man.
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I only mentioned him because he,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer's book.