Paternalism is despotic, not because it is more oppressive than naked, brutal, unenlightened tyranny, nor merely because it ignores the transcendental reason embodied in me, but because it is an insult to my conception of myself as a human being, determined to make my own life in accordance with my own (not neccessarily rational or benevolent) purposes, and, above all, entitled to be recognized as such by others.
Isaiah Berlin, Four Essays on Liberty (1969)
Adam sat in front of the fire in a deep armchair. Outside the rain beat on the double windows. There were several magazines in the library — mostly cheap weeklies devoted to the cinema.

There was a stuffed owl and a case of early British remains, bone pins and bits of pottery and a skull, which had been dug up in the park many years ago and catalogued by Nina’s governess.

There was a cabinet containing the relics of Nina’s various collecting fevers — some butterflies and a beetle or two, some fossils and some birds eggs and a few postage stamps. There were some bookcases of superbly unreadable books, a gun, a butterfly net, an alpenstock …
Evelyn Waugh, Vile Bodies (1930)