Why he mispronounces words.

There was something about books that had always felt right.  There was no greater ambition, or indeed pleasure, than sitting quietly with endless hours of uninterrupted words arranged meticulously into ideas.  Conversation could only clumsily rehash what had already been said by far wiser philosophers.  Even the popular writers of the present could do little more than rework the masterpieces in entertaining ways.  And what was the point, when a pure version waited patiently in writing?

He had no interest in cultural references, shock-value, or irony.  Such were the tools of amateurs.  He was annoyed by the avant-garde which struck him as a desperate plea for attention.  Even worse were conformists imitating trends.  Or the aloof cult of irony, terrified of admitting passion lest they seem excitable (read:  uncool).  Why could no one make a true and honest statement anymore?

Sometimes in conversation, he’d mispronounce words.  “Behemoth.”  “Isochronous.”  This was because he had only seen the words, never heard them spoken aloud.  This was embarrassing for him and he blamed his embarrassment on others; if people weren’t so foolish he wouldn’t have to do more reading than speaking.  People would never give him what he wanted.  They’d never teach him anything.  And what was the point, when the purest teachers waited patiently in literature?