Most of us who turn to any subject we love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love.
George Eliot [Mary Ann (or Marian) Evans] (1819–1880), British novelist, editor. Middlemarch, bk. 2, ch. 15 (1871).