He felt no interest in the stupid chapter. He tore it up--
and knew it was the right thing to do, because he heard the characters
laughing.
"I'm not in the mood," he reflected. "It's artificial. William Smith
of Peckham would skip this chapter. There's something bigger in me. I
wonder...!"
He lit his pipe and sat by the open window, watching the stars and
sniffing the scented summer night. He let his thoughts go wandering as
they would, and the moment he relaxed attention a sense of pleasant
relief stole over him. He discovered how great the effort had been. He
also discovered the reason. It offered itself in a flash to his mind
that was no longer blocked by the effort and therefore unreceptive.
"A man can't live adventure and write it too," he, realised sharply.
"He writes what he would like to live. I'm living adventure. The
desire to live it vicariously by writing it has left me. Of course!"
It was a sweet and rich discovery--that the adventures of the last ten
days had been so real and meant so much to him. No man of action,
leading a deep, full life of actual experience, felt the need of
scribbling, painting, fiddling.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252