In the very childhood I didn't love litterature. I was however urged into them, and it did me well. But I did not well: for I didn't learn unless I was forced. For none do well unwillingly, even if what's done is good. But you, Lord, punished me who didn't wanna learn. For an inordinate soul is it's own punishment.

I abhorred Greek litterature. For what reason I don't understand even now. For I loved Latin litterature, not those, which the elementary magisters taught, but those, where I was compelled to learn of the long travels of Aeneas and to cry over Dido's death. Those kinds of stories were thought more honorable than the litterature, where I learned to read and write. But truth tells me: "It ain't like that, it ain't like that; the earlier education was better." So I sinned as a boy: for "one and one is two, two and two is four" was hated to me, but sweeter the spectacle of fully armoured wooden horses...

(Summary of Confessions 1:12-13)