To readers, the greats can actually speak.
Of course it's true that Emerson wrote this down on a piece of paper:
Men cease to interest us as soon as we find their limitations. As soon as you come up with a man's limitations, it is all over with him. Has he talents? Has he enterprise? Has he knowledge? It boots not. Infinitely alluring and attractive was he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in; now, you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you never see it again.
And published it in one of his lesser-known essays, Circles, in 1841. But he wrote in the present, off the cuff, from his journals, and he remains prescient today, on this subject and countless others, on the web, in tweets, in books and libraries and talks and god only knows what other forms.
I bring this up to introduce a new talent from an old friend. Sylvia Plath, a remarkable novelist, a great poet, a continuing controversy; and well, she also turns out to be a first-rate pen and ink artist.
To wit, in just one of many examples from the most recent Paris Review:
It's not just men who we dismiss too readily for their perceived limitations.