I Know Of No Place Where The

The Tragedy Of Journalism Lies In Its Impermanence; The Very Topicality Which Gives It Brilliance Condemns It To An Early Death. Too Often It Is A Process Of Flinging Bright Balloons In The Path Of The Hurricane, A Casting Of Priceless Petals Upon The Rushing Surface Of A Stream.

I Know Of No Place Where The Wind Can Be As Icy And The Damp So Penetrating As In Oxford Round About Easter Time.

Nevertheless, Hateful As Saying 'no' Always Is To An Imaginative Person, And Certain As The Offence May Be That It Will Cause To Individuals Whose Own Work Does Not Require Isolated Effort, The Writer Who Is Engaged On A Book Must Learn To Say It. He Must Say It Consistently To All Interrupters; To The Numerous Callers And Correspondents Who Want Him To Speak, Open Bazaars, See Them For 'only' Ten Minutes, Attend Literary Parties, Put People Up, Or Read, Correct And Find Publishers For Semi-literate Manuscripts By His Personal Friends.

Why, I Wonder, Do People Who At One Time Or Another Have All Been Young Themselves, And Who Ought Therefore To Know Better, Generalize So Suavely And So Mendaciously About The Golden Hours Of Youth-that Period Of Life When Every Sorrow Seems Permanent, And Every Setback Insuperable?

So Many People Seem To Imagine That Because The Actual Tools Of Writing Are Easily Accessible, It Is Less Difficult Than The Other Arts. This Is Entirely An Illusion.