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Updated: June 12, 2025
And in this deeply moving and beautiful passage we get a foretaste, it may be, of the euthanasia, following a brief summer of St. Martin, for which the scarred and troublous portions of Gissing's earlier life had served as a preparation.
The year of this autobiographical record marked the commencement of Gissing's reclamation from that worst form of literary slavery the chain-gang. For he had been virtually chained to the desk, perpetually working, imprisoned in a London lodging, owing to the literal lack of the means of locomotion.
They were approaching the last turning at which it was still possible to avoid the fatal road, and Gissing's attention was divided. "Yes, after a fashion," he replied. "Bishop, do you know that road down into the valley? The view is really superb Yes, that road Oh, no, I am a bachelor " It was too late. The chauffeur, unconscious of this private crisis, was spinning along the homeward way.
Gissing's face showed his elation. "And wear a cassock?" he cried. "Certainly not," said the Bishop sternly. "Not even a surplice. You must remember you have not been ordained. If you are serious in your zeal, you must work your way up gradually, beginning at the bottom."
This only pretends to be a chronological and, quite incidentally, a critical survey of George Gissing's chief works. And comparatively short as his working life proved to be hampered for ten years by the sternest poverty, and for nearly ten more by the sad, illusive optimism of the poitrinaire the task of the mere surveyor is no light or perfunctory one.
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