him for his work, that to expect remuneration was sordid and
disgusting. Do you think he'd sign a certificate to the effect that you
were normal and sane? And still how is it with a writer in this the
twentieth century,--century of enlightenment and of progress? First of
all he must go through the formative period, which means years. Nothing,
even genius, springs without preparation into full bloom. No matter how
good the idea, how big the thought, it must be moulded by a mastery of
technique and a proficiency that only experience can give. And meanwhile
he must live. How? No matter. The suggestion is mundane. Let him settle
that for himself. At last, perhaps, if he has the divine spark, he gets
a hearing. We'll suppose he accomplishes his purpose,--pleases them,
makes them think, or laugh, or forget temporarily, as the case may be. In
a way he has made an opening and arrived. And yet, though an artist, he
is, first of all, a human being, an animal. The animal part of him
demands insistently the good things of life. If he is normal he wants a
home and a family of his own; and wants that home as good as that of his
neighbor who practises law or makes soda biscuits. With this premise what
do the public, who don't know him personally but whom he serves just the
same, do? The only way they can show their appreciation tangibly is by
buying his work; giving him encouragement, making it possible to live and
to write more. I repeat I know this is all mundane and commonplace and
unaesthetic, but it's reality. And do they give this encouragement, buy
themselves, and let him make his tiny royalty which in turn enables him
to live, pass an appreciation on to their friends and induce them to buy?
In a fractional proportion of times, yes. In the main, John, whom the
writer has worked a year, day and night, to reach, by chance meets his
friend Charley. 'By the way,' he remarks, 'I picked up that novel of
Blank's lately. It's good, all right, all right; kept me up half the
night to finish it. I want you to read it, old man. It's just your style.
No use to buy it, though,' he adds hurriedly. 'Drop in sometime and I'll
lend it to you.' Of a sudden he remembers. 'Come to think of it, though,
I believe just now it's lent to Phil--or was it Dick who took it. The
story's a corker and they've both had it.' He thinks again hard and
remembers. 'I have it now. Dick gave it to Sam; he told me so. Get it
from him yourself. I know you'll like it.' An