"An obvious fact is that the owner of this notebook—the person who had been narrating the whole affair in the first person—didn't seem to possess the cultural background or intellectual capacity to write something like this."
Strange ignored the cold tea. Instead, he took a bottle of liquor, two glasses, and an ice bucket from the shelf, conjured some ice, put the bottle inside, and looked at Stark as he spoke.
"What makes you say that?" Stark asked.
"Oh, come on, Tony. Since I've already been honest with you, why do you have to... Fine, I get it. You're a typical scientist. You aren't that interested in literature or art—at least not literature."
"But you can't deny that I've read a lot of books."
"Mostly theoretical knowledge in the sciences, isn't it?"
Stark fell silent and did not deny it. In truth, there was nothing to deny. He had always preferred technical books and rarely read works with strong narrative elements. He liked peering into the truth rather than indulging in imagination.
In fact, the events recorded in this black notebook were already the longest story he had read in years. He was surprised that he had managed to finish such a lengthy section in one sitting. Perhaps the little figures Strange had conjured had made it more intuitive.
"Enough. Just thinking about all those literary descriptions gives me a headache." Stark waved a hand somewhat rudely and said, "'More or less,' 'generally speaking,' 'delicate,' 'gorgeous,' 'rough,' 'crude'—writers never give anything a fixed value. They have to be vague with their descriptions, calling it leaving room for imagination. That gives me no sense of security at all. I like precise things."
"Not hard to imagine." Strange took the liquor from the ice bucket and poured a glass for himself and