"The fault was mine. The page of life that was spread out before me seemed dull and commonplace, only because I had not fathomed its deeper import. A better book than I shall ever write was there; leaf after leaf presenting itself to me, just as it was written out by reality of the flitting hour, and vanishing as fast as written, only because my brain wanted the insight and my hand the cunning to transcribe it. At some future day, it may be I shall remember a few scattered fragments and broken paragraphs, and write them down, and find the letters turn to gold upon the page."
The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne