Sartre's leaftime, from his autobiography.

"… my grandfather -- who was usually so clumsy that my grandmother buttoned 
his gloves for him -- handled those cultural objects with the dexterity of an 
officiant. Hundreds of times I saw him get up from his chair with an 
absent-minded look, walk around his table, cross the room in two strides, 
take down a volume without hesitating, without giving himself time to choose, 
leaf through it with a combined movement of his thumb and forefinger as he 
walked back to his chair, then, as soon as he was seated, open it sharply "to 
the right page," making it creak like a shoe. At times, I would draw near to 
observe those boxes which slit open like oysters, and I would see the nudity 
of their inner organs, pale, fusty leaves, slightly bloated covered with 
black veinlets, which drank ink and smelled of mushrooms." Jean-Paul Sartre, 
_The Words_

Shaman