Somewhere in a quiet village pub

In fact, the village inn of the year, there appeared a row of early twentieth century books, comical and suitable for the more light-headed reader.

Following lines can be found on page fifty-four of the book on the middle shelf (blue cover, faded)

It really is
Beyond the limit of respectable superstition
To confuse my voice with a peacock’s. Don’t they know
I sing solo bass in Hell’s Madrigal Club?
– And as for you, you with no eyes, no ears,
No senses, you the most superstitious
Of all – (for what great superstition
Is there than the mumbo-jumbo of believing
In reality?) – you should be swallowed whole by Time
In the way that you swallow appearances.”

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