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People often think they do, and they write for writing's sake; but these letters are most wearying to read. Between every line you seem to see the words, "Is not this a charming letter?" and in reality you are so bored it is all you can do to reach the end. Then those dreadful persons who "cross and recross" their epistles in every direction!
Gwinner's Life and Professor Wallace's little work on the same subject, as well as to the few other authorities that have been available. Wallace, p. 108. Haldane and Kemp's The World as Will and Idea. Wallace, p. 145. There are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for the subject's sake, and those who write for writing's sake.
The thing's clear enough when one looks into it. I don't profess to translate this old MS. at sight. You see the ar the writing's crabbed; and my time is too much occupied to study it carefully. No, I shall just sell the thing to the man I mentioned as it stands. To return to what I was telling you about the use of tobacco, though.
Then pans and pickling skillets rise, In dreadful lustre, to our eyes, With store of sweetmeats, rang'd in order, And potted nothings on the border; While salves and caudle-cups between, With squalling children, close the scene." "You write with ease, to show your breeding, But easy writing's curst hard reading."
However, people are easy-going, and they have formed the habit of reading page upon page of all sorts of such verbiage, without having any particular idea of what the author really means. They fancy it is all as it should be, and fail to discover that he is writing simply for writing's sake.
"You'd done such lovely paintings in our books, that we felt we wanted to put something in yours," said Avis, "though I'm afraid our productions won't be very nice. I can't draw a stroke, and my writing's not at all elegant. I think you'd better not ask me."
You're here to see he don't make any changes from what I've fixed on. We've got that all cut and dried now. It's only the writing's got to be done. I'll trust him for that. But there's not a scene that's to be cut out, or a situation to be altered, now I've fixed everything up. If you cable me, 'Opera finished according to decision, I'll take your word, get out a contract, and go right ahead.
But I'm going to try spending the other six in the bosom of the human race. Not only that, I'm going to write about it. Writing's my job, really. At least, it's the thing I like best." "Nature?" "Human nature. I went out to Colorado just a lonesome little kid with a bum lung. The lung's all right, but I never did quite get over the other.
But it's no good. She doesn't listen to me, you know." Aunt Anne, with the incomparable way that she had, brushed all this very gently aside. She simply said: "I'm glad that she's well." Then she turned to the other gentleman: "Your writing's quite satisfactory, I hope, Mr. Magnus." She spoke as though it had been a cold or a toothache. He smiled his melancholy ironical smile.
"I don't believe he would, but Ann told me once she knew Mrs. Scrimp would be glad enough to take him if he'd give her the chance. What would you have done if he had?" "I don't know, and it isn't worth while to consider," replied Lulu, with a grown-up air she occasionally assumed, much to Max's amusement. "But my writing's done, and I'm going to bed, for I'm tired and sleepy. So good-night."
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