You, O Books, are the golden vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with which the missiles of the most wicked are destroyed; fruitful olives, vines of Engaddi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning lamps to be ever held in the hand.
Some people never learn the art of compromise. Everything is either black or white. They do no recognize, or will not concede, that the equally important color gray is a mixture of black and white.