All his life he had been treading on the thin line between ingenuity and madness , not able to decide to what realm he really belonged. To a spectator his toilsome work was as incomprehensible as newsprint is to an ignorant man.
His head would be bent low over the eye-piece of the microscope, a posture whose fixation was only broken by an occasional move to the side-table to make his notes.
That's what he lived for. That's what true geniuses always live for - their passion - which towers above all their carnal attachments.
For such men , their work is its own reward; the money could be a coincidence.
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