He had made a
mistake. Not this story, but that other one, was what he should
have taken. The other one in question, left out of mind for a
time, had come back with a face of new possibility; it invited
him, tempted him to throw aside what he had already written.
Good; now he was in more hopeful train. But a few days, and the
experience repeated itself. No, not this story, but that third
one, of which he had not thought for a long time. How could he
have rejected so hopeful a subject?
For months he had been living in this way; endless circling,
perpetual beginning, followed by frustration. A sign of
exhaustion, it of course made exhaustion more complete. At times
he was on the border-land of imbecility; his mind looked into a
cloudy chaos, a shapeless whirl of nothings. He talked aloud to
himself, not knowing that he did so. Little phrases which
indicated dolorously the subject of his preoccupation often
escaped him in the street: 'What could I make of that, now?'
'Well, suppose I made him--?' 'But no, that wouldn't do,' and so
on. It had happened that he caught the eye of some one passing
fixed in surprise upon him; so young a man to be talking to
himself in evident distress!
The expected crisis came, even now that he was savagely
determined to go on at any cost, to write, let the result be what
it would.
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