Marked in a little
floating dust. And not one vestige, not an outline nor portion of an
outline even, remained. There was no rough draft, no sketch, no note
or notes of the work existing. I always wrote every manuscript, from
its first word to its last, on the paper that went to the publisher.
My inspiration of the time was transferred direct to the page before
me, and there it stood, without alteration, without correction. I
never wanted to touch it or change it after it was once written. I
was struck down, back again to the foot of the hill of work up which
I had been struggling twelve months. Lucia, celebrity, pleasure,
liberty, everything I coveted was now removed, taken far off into
indefinite distance from me. For twelve months they had been coming
nearer, steadily nearer, with each accomplished page, and to-day,
only to-day, I had left the publisher's office knowing they were
close to me, almost within my very arms. Like the prisoner serving
his time in gaol, and living, as it were, in the last day that sets
him free, I had been living these twelve months in the day when the
last line should be written. Now all to be recommenced from the
wearying, sickening beginning. And why? Why had he done it? That I
could not understand. As a psychological enigma it leapt fitfully
before my brain between the spasms of personal desperation.
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