It is many days since I have touched this journal. A hateful sickness
has been upon me, destroying all energy and courage. A sort of fever,
and yet my limbs were cold. I could not describe it if I would.
Nofuhl came into the cabin this evening with some of his metal plates
and discoursed upon them. He has no respect for the intellects of the
early Mehrikans. I thought for a moment I had caught him in a
contradiction, but he was right as usual. It was thus:
Nofuhl.
They were great readers.
Khan-li.
You have told us they had no literature. Were they great readers of
nothing?
Nofuhl.
Verily, thou hast said it! Vast sheets of paper were published daily
in which all crimes were recorded in detail. The more revolting the
deed, the more minute the description. Horrors were their chief
delight. Scandals were drunk in with thirstful eyes. These chronicles
of crime and filth were issued by hundreds of thousands. There was
hardly a family in the land but had one.
Khan-li.
And did this take the place of literature?
Nofuhl.
Even so.