I craved and thirsted after success far more than a fever-stricken
man in the desert can crave after water, for the longings and
desires of the body are finite, and when a fixed pitch in them has
been surpassed, death grants us a merciful cessation of all desire,
but the longings of the mind are infinite, absolutely without limit
and without period; and where a physical desire, ungratified, must
eventually destroy itself as it wears away the matter that has given
it birth, a mental desire does not wane with the flesh it wastes,
but remains ravening to the last, and reigns supreme over the death
agony, up to the final moment of actual dissolution.
I had done what I could to attain my own wishes; I was not one of
those idle, clever fellows who imagine talent independent of work,
and who are too lazy to throw into words and commit to paper the
brilliant but vague, unformed inspirations that visit them between
the circling rings of smoke from their cigar.
I had no thought, no expectation, no wish even to be offered that
celebrated sweet condition of the palm without the dust of the
struggle in the arena.
But for me it had been dust, dust, and nothing but dust, and there
were times when it seemed to blind, choke, overpower me.
My capacity for work was unlimited; labour was comparatively no
labour to me.
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