> “When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does, — a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, — why do you get cross with me, then, mother?
> You never say a word when father writes.
> When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don’t seem to mind at all.> But if I take one sheet to make a boat with, you say, ‘Child, how troublesome you are!’
> What do you think of father’s spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?” > — Rabindranath, The Crescent MoonFrom:Sri Chinmoy,Rabindranath Tagore: the moon of Bengal’s Heart, Agni Press, 2011
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