quiet-the-power-of-introverts-in-a-world-that-cant-stop-talking-susan-cain

But what he loved to do best was
read. In his small apartment, where as a
widower he’d lived alone for decades,
all the furniture had yielded its original
function to serve as a surface for piles
of books: gold-leafed Hebrew texts
jumbled together with Margaret Atwood
and Milan Kundera. My grandfather
would sit beneath a halo-shaped
fluorescent light at his tiny kitchen
table, sipping Lipton tea and snacking
on marble cake, a book propped open
on the white cotton tablecloth. In his
sermons, each a tapestry of ancient and
humanist thought, he’d share with his
congregation the fruits of that week’s
study. He was a shy person who had
trouble making eye contact with the
audience, but he was so bold in his
spiritual and intellectual explorations
that when he spoke the congregation
swelled to standing-room-only.
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