"Is
it this that has stopped your writing?" he said. "No," I said, "the
power had gone from me before--I could not originate, I could only
do the same sort of work, and of weaker quality than before."
"Well," he said, "I don't wonder; the last book must have been a
great strain, though I am sure you were happy when you wrote it. I
remember a friend of mine, a great Alpine climber, who did a
marvellous feat of climbing some unapproachable peak--without any
sense of fatigue, he told me, all pure enjoyment--but he had a
heart-attack the next day, and paid the penalty of his enjoyment.
He could not climb for some years after that." "Yes," I said, "I
think that has been my case--but my fear is that if I lose the
habit--and I seem to have lost it--I shall never be able to take it
up again." "No, you need not fear that," he replied; "if something
is given you to say, you will be able to say it, and say it better
than ever--but no doubt you feel very much lost without it. How do
you fill the time?" "I hardly know," I said, "not very profitably--
I read, I teach my daughter, I muddle along." "Well," he said,
smiling, "the hours in which we muddle along are not our worst
hours.
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