The Canadian Is Often A Baffled Man

Write As Often As Possible, Not With The Idea At Once Of Getting Into Print, But As If You Were Learning An Instrument.

There Are Plenty Of Clever Young Writers. But There Is Too Much Genius, Not Enough Talent.

There Is Romance, The Genuine Glinting Stuff, In Typewriters, And Not Merely In Their Development From Clumsy Giants Into Agile Dwarfs, But In The History Of Their Manufacture, Which Is Filled With Raids, Battles, Lonely Pioneers, Great Gambles, Hope, Fear, Despair, Triumph. If Some Of Our Novels Could Be Written By The Typewriters Instead Of On Them, How Much Better They Would Be.

But Some Of Us Are Beginning To Pull Well Away, In Our Irritation, From...the Exquisite Tasters, The Vintage Snobs, The Three-star Michelin Gourmets. There Is, We Feel, A Decent Area Somewhere Between Boiled Carrots And Beluga Caviare, Sour Plonk And Chateau Lafitte, Where We Can Take Care Of Our Gullets And Bellies Without Worshipping Them.

If There Was A Little Room Somewhere In The British Museum That Contained Only About Twenty Exhibits And Good Lighting, Easy Chairs, And A Notice Imploring You To Smoke, I Believe I Should Become A Museum Man.