The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete


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enough to turn up some time or other and be mistaken by him for his own.  
No doubt we are constantly littering our literature with disconnected  
sentences borrowed from books at some unremembered time and now  
imagined  
to be our own, but that is about the most we can do. In 1866 I read Dr.  
Holmes's poems, in the Sandwich Islands. A year and a half later I stole  
his dictation, without knowing it, and used it to dedicate my "Innocents  
Abroad" with. Then years afterwards I was talking with Dr. Holmes about  
it. He was not an ignorant ass--no, not he: he was not a collection of  
decayed human turnips, like your "Plagiarism Court;" and so when I said,  
"
I know now where I stole it, but whom did you steal it from," he said,  
I don't remember; I only know I stole it from somebody, because I have  
"
never originated anything altogether myself, nor met anybody who had."  
To think of those solemn donkeys breaking a little child's heart  
with their ignorant rubbish about plagiarism! I couldn't sleep for  
blaspheming about it last night. Why, their whole lives, their whole  
histories, all their learning, all their thoughts, all their opinions  
were one solid ruck of plagiarism, and they didn't know it and  
never suspected it. A gang of dull and hoary pirates piously setting  
themselves the task of disciplining and purifying a kitten that they  
think they've caught filching a chop! Oh, dam--  
But you finish it, dear, I am running short of vocabulary today. Ever  
lovingly your friend,  
1080  


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