[There are a few observations to pick out with a quick once-over: his clothes, fashioned for him in this world, done up in navy hues and embroidered with the sign of Death over the heart. A more peculiar piece of cloth hanging at his shoulders, a bright red cloak that is both patchwork and tailored with care. Stephen's hands during the exchange of the book itself, lined with long, purposeful scars down the fingers, grown faint with time. And at his temples, matching swashes of greying hair, proof of either a genetic quirk, or too much stress. Maybe both.]

Doctor Stephen Strange.

[He gives no time for anyone to slip in a clever remark about his last name, these days. Continuing with an arching brow-]

You get what you put in. For as many holes in your knowledge you'll get by skimming, you might as well spend your time in the library taking a nap.

[In other words, it isn't exactly how Stephen goes about vacuuming up knowledge. He is thorough, determined, and also has the convenient ways of circumventing the body's pesky need for sleep.]