characteristic of the little man. He is probably not more assertive or more
vain than the general run of us, but we can keep those defects dark, so to
speak. He, on the other hand, has to go through life on tip-toe, carrying
his head as high as his neck will lift it, and saying, as it were: "Hi! you
long-legged fellows, don't forget me!" And this very reasonable anxiety to
have "a place in the sun" gives him the appearance of being aggressive and
vain. He is only trying to get level with the long-legged people, just as
the short-sighted man tries to get level with the long-sighted man by
wearing spectacles.

The discomfort of the very tall man is less humiliating than that of the
small man, but it is also very real. He is just as much removed from
contact with the normal world, and he has the added disadvantage of being
horribly conspicuous. He can never forget himself, for all heads look up at
him as he passes. He doesn't fit any doorway; he can't buy ready-made
clothes; if he sleeps in a strange bed he has to leave his feet outside;
and in the railway carriage or a bus he has to tie his legs into
uncomfortable knots to keep them out of the way. In short, he finds himself
a nuisance in a world made for people of five-feet-nine-and-a-half. But he
has one advantage over the small man. He does not have to ask for notice.
The result is that while the little man often seems vain and pushful, the
giant usually is very tame, and modest, and unobtrusive. The little man
wants to be seen: the giant wants not to be seen.

And so it comes about that our virtues and our failings have more to do
with the length of our legs than we think.