The editor without any inquiry--and I
believe I was mistaken--instantly congratulated me on having
"scored." At another time, when Parliament was not sitting, I
ventured, by way of filling up my allotted space, to say a word on
behalf of a now utterly forgotten novel. I had a letter from the
authoress thanking me, but alas! the illusion vanished. I was
tempted by this one novel to look into others which I found she had
written, and I discovered that they were altogether silly. The
attraction of the one of which I thought so highly, was due not to
any real merit which it possessed, but to something I had put into
it. It was dead, but it had served as a wall to re-echo my own
voice. Excepting these two occasions, I don't think that one
solitary human being ever applauded or condemned one solitary word of
which I was the author. All my friends knew where my contributions
were to be found, but I never heard that they looked at them. They
were never worth reading, and yet such complete silence was rather
lonely. The tradesman who makes a good coat enjoys the satisfaction
of having fitted and pleased his customer, and a bricklayer, if he be
diligent, is rewarded by knowing that his master understands his
value, but I never knew what it was to receive a single response.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25