" The absolute candor with
which Andersen lays bare his soul, the complete intentional or
unintentional self-revelation, gives a psychological value to the book
which no mere literary graces could bestow. I confess, until I had the
pleasure of making Andersen's acquaintance, "The Fairy Tale of My Life"
impressed me unpleasantly. After I had by personal intercourse possessed
myself of the clew to the man's character, I judged differently.
Andersen remained, until the day of his death, a child. His innocence
was more than virginal; his unworldliness simply inconceivable. He
carried his heart on his sleeve, and invited you to observe what a soft,
tender, and sensitive heart it was. He had the harmless vanity of a
child who has a new frock on. He was fidgety and unhappy if anybody but
himself was the centre of attraction; and guilelessly happy when he
could talk and be admired and sympathized with. His conversation was
nearly always about himself, or about the kings and princes and lofty
personages who had graciously deigned to take notice of him.
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