Trivia

by Logan Pearsall Smith

This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact, or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections, have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.

Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1902

About the author

Logan Pearsall Smith was an American-born essayist and critic, and a notable writer on historical semantics.

Reviews

[Sharon Barrow Wilfong · Rating 4 out of 5]

I had never heard of this writer before, but I was traveling and found the book on my kindle which means it is public domain. I have a lot of those on my kindle and in my travels I read through quite a few of them. Ten hour flights are a good venue for reading.

This is a collection of essays by Smith about his personal observations about his life, society in London, religion, socio-political thought from the eyes of a Victorian/early Twentieth century man.

I thought his essays, were lucid, thought-provoking and charming. I recommend this short book to anyone who likes to read the inner thoughts of a man who possesses humor with realism.

[David Lumpkin · Rating 3 out of 5]

When I first started this little book, I thought the author came across pretentious. As I read on, he seems to agree with that, to a degree. Having finished the book, I will say it was an entertaining group of random thoughts, tales, impressions, etc. Keep in mind that it was authored around the turn of the 19th to 20th century and was a different mindset than today's reader.

[Tim Wainwright · Rating 5 out of 5]

Wonderful.

[James Dempsey · Rating 5 out of 5]

A new favourite.

Consolation

“The other day, depressed on the Underground, I tried to cheer myself by thinking over the joys of our human lot. But there wasn't one of them for which I seemed to care a button—not Wine, nor Fame, nor Friendship, nor Eating, nor Making Love, nor the Consciousness of Virtue. Was it worth while then going way up in a lift into a world that had nothing less trite to offer?

Then I thought of reading—the nice and subtle happiness of reading. This was enough, this joy not dulled by Age, this polite and unpunishable vice, this selfish, serene, life-long intoxication.”