All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.
The man or woman who concentrated on Things can hardly be trusted to use those things for the essential good of mankind. Only those who have guided the development of their spirit as well as their mind are really; qualified to use wisely the things that man's reason has enabled him to fashion out of nature's raw materials.