The Preface.

...thing of their own; but only steal things and words from which they make books, and so on. Those who must examine that jumble original: farrago; a confused mixture or medley of books—by which we are nearly overwhelmed every year—know this to be most true. For if you look at the titles, they are always new and very impressive original: specious; having a deceptive attraction or allure, appearing better than it actually is; but if you look at the content, it is always the same material boiled over and over more than a thousand times, with rehashed leftovers original: Coleworts; literally cabbage, but used here as a metaphor for repetitive, stale ideas being served again crammed in until it becomes nauseating.

And even when some new observation is offered, what is the point of writing entire books for it? These new findings are so buried among ordinary things that a person either has no desire to search for what is new in them, or cannot do so without weariness of spirit and loss of time. But it is not my intention to speak out against this disorder at great length. I come now to explain why I myself am appearing in public. And I will