He would like to write a great
poem, but he had never felt a second's inspiration, and had never
wasted time in the endeavor to force it. Failing that, he would like
to write a novel; but, fluently and even brilliantly as he sometimes
talked, his pen was not ready, and he was conscious of a conspicuous
lack of imagination. To be sure, one does not need much in these
days of realistic fervor; it is considered rather a coarse and
old-fashioned article; but that one needs some sort of a plot is
indisputable, and Dartmouth's brain had consistently refused to evolve
one. Doubtless he could cultivate the mere habit of writing,
and achieve reputation as an essayist. His critical faculty was
pronounced, and he had carefully developed it; and it was possible
that when the world had completely palled upon him, he would shut
himself up at Crumford Hall and give the public the benefit of his
accumulated opinions, abstract and biographical. But he was not ready
for that yet; he needed several years more of experience, observation,
and assiduous cultivation of the habit of analysis; and in the
meantime he was in a condition of cold disgust with himself and with
Fate.
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