Did you remember your cinchona this
morning? Good. Cinchona also is a work of nature; it is,
after all, only the bark of a tree which we might gather
for, ourselves if we lived in the locality.'
*
The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it
down, spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more
than he makes haste to blot. Not so the Beginner. Human
nature has certain rights ; instinct--the instinct of
self-preservation--forbids that any man (cheered and supported
by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure
the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period
to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope
to feed upon. The beginner must have a slant of wind, a
lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those
hours when the words come and the phrases balance
themselves--EVEN TO BEGIN. And having begun, what a dread
looking forward is that until the book shall he
accomplished! For so long a time the slant is to continue
unchanged, the vein to keep running, for so long a time you
must keep at command the same quality of style: for so long
a time your puppets are to be always vital, always
consistent, always vigorous!
*
What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend? inquired
Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was of daily
recurrence.
'That we have no children, my beautiful,' replied the
Doctor.
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