It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a

Cyril Connolly once declared with contemplative grace: “It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a book.” At first, these words may seem simple, a gentle preference for rural life over the city. Yet hidden within them lies a deeper wisdom about stillness, intimacy, and the unveiling of truth. For Connolly reminds us that the country, with its silence and its patient rhythms, is the sanctuary where masks fall away and both human beings and books reveal their true essence.

In the bustling city, where noise and haste reign, men and women wear countless disguises. The day is divided by duties, the night consumed with distractions, and the heart rarely finds space to breathe. So too with books—skimmed in haste, read between interruptions, they yield only their surface, never their soul. But in the country, where the pace of life slows to the turning of the seasons and the whisper of wind in the fields, one can linger long enough to truly see. It is there, in the quiet, that a person shows the depth of their character, and a book opens its hidden chambers of meaning.

Consider the story of Henry David Thoreau, who withdrew to Walden Pond. In the solitude of the woods, he came to know not only the forests and waters, but himself. Freed from the noise of society, he discovered truth in simplicity and wrote words that still stir the soul. Thoreau’s time in the country was not a retreat but an unveiling—of life, of thought, of spirit. His book Walden was born not in the lecture halls of the city, but in the quietude of nature, where time allowed both man and book to ripen.

Connolly’s wisdom also teaches us that relationships, like literature, require patience. In crowded places, we exchange pleasantries, but seldom penetrate the surface. In the country, with long walks, unhurried meals, and nights beneath quiet skies, we learn to see another’s heart. Distractions fall away, and what remains is the essence of companionship. The same is true of a book—to sit with it beneath a tree, to read until the sun sets and the stars awaken, is to allow its words to mingle with the rhythms of nature and the beating of one’s heart. Only then can we truly say we know it.

History, too, confirms this truth. The poets of ancient China often retreated to rivers and mountains, believing the country the only place where thought could flourish unshackled. Du Fu, Li Bai, and others found in the quiet landscapes not only inspiration but revelation. Their poems were not hurried sketches but meditations, born of long reflection amidst fields and rivers. They knew that just as nature does not reveal her beauty to the impatient, so too do people and books demand time and stillness if they are to be truly known.

Thus the lesson stands clear: do not rush through the pages of a book, nor skim the surface of a person’s life. Make space for slowness. Seek the country, whether in the literal fields and hills or in the symbolic places of stillness within your own life. Withdraw, even for a time, from the rush of the world, and grant yourself the silence to see clearly. For truth is shy—it hides from haste, but it comes forward in patience.

So I say to you: take your books into the quiet places, and read until their words take root in you. Take your friends and loved ones into the stillness of the country, and speak until the masks fall away and only the true soul remains. Do not mistake acquaintance for knowing, nor cursory reading for wisdom. For as Connolly spoke, and as the ages confirm, “It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a book.”

Let this teaching be your guide: seek silence, seek depth, seek the unhurried spaces of life. For in them lies the power to see clearly, to know truly, and to live wisely.