"Take your time," Mr. Ballou encouraged."Read, borrow, and keep.Find something you like.What do you read?" "Pick for me, then." I said. He looked up and down at me as though measuring me for a suit.After a moment, he nodded, and handed me a dark red book, fairly thick. "The Last of the Just," I read."By Andre Schwarz-Bart.What's it about?" "You tell me," he said."Next week." I started after supper, sitting outdoors on an uncomfortable kitchen chair Within a few pages, the yard, the summer, disappeared.Translated from French, the language was beautiful, simple, impossible to resist.When the evening light finally failed I moved inside, read all through the night. To this day, thirty years later, I clearly remember the experience.It was my first meeting with world literature, and I was amazed by the strong power a novel contain.I lacked the vocabulary, however, to translate my feelings into words, so the next week, when Mr. Ballou asked,"Well?"I only replied, "It was good." "Keep it, then,"he said."Shall I suggest another?"      I nodded, and was presented with Margaret Mead's Coming of Age in Samoa.      To make the story short, Mr. Ballou never paid me a cent for helping cut his grass that year or the next, but for fifteen years I taught anthroplogy at Dartmouth College.That summer when I started to read became a turning point in my life which change the course of all that followed. After I start reading"The Last of the Just"  _  .
I was absorbed in my reading the evening light failed I found it impossible to translate the book I was eager to read another book