"I am proving to you
that I am, to a certain extent, helpless in what I write; that it is
impossible for me to think of publics, British or otherwise, of
publishers or critics, when I am writing. I have no time to consider
them, no space in my brain for them, no memory that such things, or
anything outside of what I am describing, exists even. My only
thought is to drive along my pen fast enough, in obedience to the
strenuous impulse urging me. I do not 'make up,' as your phrase is,
anything. I simply put down on paper, as fast as I can, the thoughts
that are pouring into my brain, like the waves of a flood flowing
over it. I am whirled away on the stream myself; my identity is
lost, submerged. Now look here, I'll give you a cut and dried
instance which will make clear how it is that I offend the
prejudices, or the proprieties, or whatever you call it, in my
books; at least I imagine it is in this way: Suppose I have a death
scene to write. My MS. is waiting for that to complete it. I don't
say to myself beforehand, Now there shall be a bed with Tomkins
dying in it; there shall be Maria at the left-hand corner, and Jane
at the right. The wife and doctor shall be grouped artistically at
the foot. Tomkins shall make two speeches before he dies; no, three-
-three is more natural--uneven number. Now what shall Tomkins say?
Yes.
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