It was impossible
to tell which were of greater importance, the rules or the exceptions.
He had also to learn the exact number of pistils and stamens possessed
by every flower likely to be found in the vicinity of the Swedish
capital. The same thing happened in every subject embraced by the
curriculum. There was no end to it. Yet he did not rebel. Every one
knew that there was no other way of teaching things, so what was the use
of rebelling?
His memory was good, although tricky. In a case of aroused interest he
could absorb an astonishing number of dates, or figures, or lines of
poetry, at first glance or hearing. But he could also drop them as if he
had never heard of them the moment his interest was gone. And they
always seemed to drop out of sight when he left school and returned
home. That word interest seemed to give the key to the situation. And
all sorts of vague and queer and inexplicable things within himself
determined whether he was to be interested or not. It was not a question
of choice or will. He was or was not.
Facts as facts did not interest him at all. Even things as things did
not necessarily, though they might. The class made excursions into the
fields and woods framing the capital, and under the guidance of their
teacher of botany they observed and analysed all sorts of living
flowers.
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