I Write Every Day. Writing Is A

The World Is Like A Little Marsh Filled With Mint And White Hawthorn.

I Am Not Good. I Am Not Virtuous. I Am Not Sympathetic. I Am Not Generous. I Am Merely And Above All A Creature Of Intense Passionate Feeling. I Feel—everything. It Is My Genius. It Burns Me Like Fire.

My Intention To Lecture Is As Vague As My Intention Is To Go On The Stage. I Will Never Consider An Offer To Lecture, Not Because I Despise The Vocation, But Because I Have No Desire To Appear On The Public Rostrum.

Well, If I Am Not Vulgar, Neither Is My Book. I Wrote Myself. Suggestiveness Is Always Vulgar. But Truth Never. My Book Is Not Even Remotely Suggestive. I Call Things By Their Names. That Is All.

I Want To Write Such Things As Compel The Admiring Acclamation Of The World At Large, Such Things As Are Written But Once In Years, Things Subtle But Distinctly Different From The Books Written Every Day.