Now, Tucked Away In A Corner Of My Consciousness Is The
Knowledge That I Need Never Be Lonely Again Unless I Choose.
When I
yield myself fully to the sweet enchantment of this thought, I feel
myself in the mood to paint sunshine, flowers, and happy children's
faces; yet I am sadly lacking in concentration, all the same.
The
fact is, I am no artist in the true sense of the word. My hope
flies ever in front of my best success, and that momentary success
does not deceive me in the very least. I know exactly how much, or
rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the imagination, the
industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve any lasting
results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it is
impossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed
for anything less than the desire to express the best that is in me
without fear or favour. It would never occur to me to trade on
present approval and dash off unworthy stuff while I have command of
the market. I am quite above all that, but I am distinctly below
that other mental and spiritual level where art is enough; where
pleasure does not signify; where one shuts oneself up and produces
from sheer necessity; where one is compelled by relentless law;
where sacrifice does not count; where ideas throng the brain and
plead for release in expression; where effort is joy, and the
prospect of doing something enduring lures the soul on to new and
ever new endeavour:
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