In fact they were stronger because more absolute, more concentrated
in themselves.
There were no pangs of hunger to distract my attention, no
traditionally patient wife to look sadly at me, no responsibilities
for others lying upon me and my rejected MSS.
Simply all my own desires for myself centred in them.
There was one side issue which at times seemed to include
everything, to be everything in itself, but the moments when this
forced itself in overwhelming prominence upon my brain were few.
The wish that I had to publish my works could not be traced to
distinct motives; it did not spring from a desire to gain money, nor
yet celebrity.
I was not particularly keen on fame while I lived, and I certainly
had no sentimental ideas of my name surviving me.
I cared little in fact whether my name ever reached the public,
provided only my works were known and read. The wish to give them
out was not a thing of motive, nor thought, nor will. It was the
fierce, instinctive impulse that accompanies all creative power, the
tremendous impetus towards production that is an integral part of
all conceptive capacity. The same driving necessity that compels a
writer in the middle of the night to rise and take his pen and
commit to paper some thought or thoughts that are racing about in
his brain, trying to find an outlet, that compels him to produce
them as far as he is able, this same urgent impulse forces him to
complete his manuscript, and when completed, to strain his utmost to
give it actual life in the thoughts and brains of the public.
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