" I apologised very humbly, and explained
the circumstances. "Oh, please don't blame yourself in any way," he
said, "I have not the least shadow of resentment in my mind about
it. There is something wrong about my work; it doesn't interest
people. I suppose it is that I can't let myself go." An interesting
conversation followed, and he told me more than he ever told me
before or since about himself. He confessed to being so critical of
his own work, that his table-drawers were full of unfinished MSS.
His usual experience was to begin a piece of work enthusiastically;
to plan it all out, and to work at first with zest. "Then it begins
to get all out of shape," he said, "there is no go about it; it all
loses itself in subtleties and complexities of motive; one thing
trips up another, and at last it all gets so tangled that I put it
aside; if I could follow the track of one strong and definite
emotion, it would be all right--but I am like the man in the story
who changes the cow for the horse, and the horse for the pig, and
the pig for the grindstone; and then the grindstone rolls into the
river." He seemed to take it all very philosophically, and I
ventured to say so.
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