The Trouble Is. . .that Everybody Sneers

Heaven Deliver Us, What's A Poet? Something That Can't Go To Bed Without Making A Song About It.

The Artist's Knowledge Of His Own Creative Nature Is Often Unconscious; He Pursues His Mysterious Way Of Life In A Strange Innocence.

[o]ne Can Scarcely Be Frightened Off Writing What One Wants To Write For Fear An Obscure Reviewer Should Patronise One On That Account.

It Is As Dangerous For People Unaccustomed To Handling Words And Unacquainted With Their Technique To Tinker About With These Heavily-charged Nuclei Of Emotional Power As It Would Be For Me To Burst Into A Laboratory And Play About With A Powerful Electromagnet Or Other Machine Highly Charged With Electrical Force.

No, No, There Must Be A Limit To The Baseness Even Of Publishers.