Told by an Idiot (Bloomsbury Reader)

by Rose Macaulay

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more;

slowly teasing love out of existence, and beating into him (less slowly) that he had married a fool.

The Moonstone, now—that was a problem novel.

Life was to her at this time more than ever a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing. She went on her way

an eternal and familiar dispute, and which side one takes in it really seems to depend more on temperament than on the amount one knows about it.