Please print off the passage below.
But to  be in Seville without a guitar  is like being on ice without skates. So  every morning,  while Kati went dancing with  h Maestro 
Realito, I took  lessons on the
instrument in my room.
  My instructor, one of Seville’s most
respected professors of the guitar, was a small 
sad man,  exquisitely polite and
patient, poorly but neatly dressed, and addicted to  bow ties made of wallpaper. Each  day 
at  the stroke of ten, he knocked
softly at my door and entered on tiptoe, as though into a sick room,  carrying his guitar case like a doctor’s bag.
“ How are
we today?” he would ask  sympathetically,
“ and how do  we proceed?”
Silently,  he would place two  chairs opposite each other, put me in the one
facing the light, sit himself in the other, then ponder me long and sadly while
I played. Infinite compassion, as from one who 
has seen  much  suffering , possessed his face while he
listened. An expression of one who, forced to 
inhabit a solitary peak of perfection, 
has nowhere to look but downwards at the waste of a fumbling world.
After an
hour’s examination, during which  he
tested all  my faulty coordinations, he would
hand me a page of exercises and bid me take them  twice a day. Then,  with  a
little bow, his chin  resting mournfully
upon  his paper tie, he would leave me
to  visit his next patient.
Sometimes -
but very occasionally - he would relax at the end of the lesson,  empty his pockets of tobacco  dust, roll 
himself a cigarette, smile, take up 
his guitar and play it to  me for
an  hour. Then his eyes would turn inward
and disappear into  the echoing chambers
of his mind, while his long white fingers moved over the strings with  the soft delicacy of the blind, lost in a dream
of melody and invention. And faced with 
the beauty of his technique ,  the
complex harmonies ,  the ease and grace ,
the supreme mastery of tone and feeling, I would feel like one of the lesser
apes who, shuffling on  his knuckles through  the sombre marshes ,  suddenly catches sight of homo sapiens,
upright on  a hill, his gold head raised
to the sky.
                                                      
                                                          Laurie Lee, Cider with Rosie