I must go to sleep.

I take from my shelves Epictetus, who might be expected to throw cold water on the most burning fever of the mind.

I have not read far before I come across this consolatory apophthegm: "The contest is unequal between a charming girl and a beginner in philosophy." He is mocking me, the cold-blooded pedagogue! I throw his book across the room.

But he is right.

I am but a beginner in philosophy.