the fabric of life. I
tried to put down very plainly some of the things that had helped me,
some of the sights that had pleased me, some of the thoughts that had
fed me. I do not really know what else is the purpose of writing at
all; it is only a kind of extended human intercourse. I am not a good
conversationalist; my thoughts do not flow fast enough, do not come
crowding to the lips; moreover, the personalities of those with whom I
talk affect me too strongly. There are people with whom one cannot be
natural or sincere. There are people whose whole range of interests is
different from one's own. There are critical people who love to trip
one up and lay one flat, boisterous people who disagree, ironical
people who mock one's sentiment, matter-of-fact people who dislike
one's fancies. But one can talk in a book without _gene_ or restraint.
It is like talking to a perfectly sympathetic listener when no third
person is by. I wrote the book without premeditation and without
calculation, just as the thoughts rose to my mind, as I should like to
speak to the people I met, if I had the art and the courage. Well, it
found its way, I am glad to think, to the right people; and as for
exposing my heart for all the world to read, I cannot see why one
should not do that! I am not ashamed of anything that I said, and I
have no sort of objection to any one knowing what I think, if they care
to know. I spoke, if I may say so without conceit, just as a bird will
sing, careless who listens to it. If the people who wander in the
garden do not like the song, the garden is mine as well as theirs; they
need not listen, or they can scare the bird with ugly gestures out of
his bush if they will. I have never been able to sympathise with that
jealous sense of privacy about one's thoughts, that is so strong in
some people. I like to be able to be alone and to have my little
stronghold; but that is because the presence of conventional and
unsympathetic people bores and tires me. But in a book it is different.
One is not intruded upon or gazed at; one may tell exactly as much of
one's inner life as one will--and there are, of course, many things
which I would not commit to the pages of a book, or even tell a friend.
But I put nothing in my book that I would not have said quite readily
to a friend whom I loved and trusted; and I like to feel that the book
has made me several gentle and unknown friends, whose company the laws
of time and space forb