Leo Tolstoy’s funeral was an international event marred by emotion, internal politics, religion and hysteria. His wife and family fought with disciples and hangers-on for access. The church, desperate to bring him back into the fold, sent a delegation. The state, concerned by his radical pronouncements and peasant following, had spies and troops stationed in the area. Telegrams and wreaths arrived continually; the latter were searched by the authorities to be sure they were not carriers of revolutionary sentiments. In the end, there was only mourning for the loss of the great author.

We owe to books those general benefits which come from high intellectual action. Thus, I think, we often owe to them the perception of immortality. They impart sympathetic activity to the moral power. Go with mean people, and you think life is mean. The read Plutarch, and the world is a proud place, peopled with men of positive quality, with heroes and demi-gods standing around us who will not let us sleep. Then they address imagination; only poetry inspires poetry. They become the organic culture of the time.  Ralph Waldo Emerson