On occasions, after drinking a pint of beer at luncheon, there would be a flow into my mind with sudden and unaccountable emotion, sometimes a line or two of verse, sometimes a whole stanza, accompanied, not preceded by a vague notion of the poem which they were destined to form a part of.... I say bubble up because, so far as I could make out, the source of the suggestions thus proffered to the brain was the pit of the stomach.
To endow the writer publicly with a good fleshly body, to reveal that he likes dry white wine and underdone steak, is to make even more miraculous for me, and of a more divine essence, the products of his art. Far from the details of his daily life bringing nearer to me the nature of his inspiration and making it clearer, it is the whole mystical singularity of his condition which the writer emphasizes by such confidences. For I cannot but ascribe to some superhumanly the existence of beings vast enough to wear blue pajamas at the very moment when they manifest themselves as universal conscience.
ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã…Â“ ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã‹ÂœAs things stand now, I am going to be a writer. IÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã¢Â„Â¢m not sure that IÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã¢Â„Â¢m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã‹Âœyou are nothing,ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã¢Â„Â¢ I will be a writer.ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã¢Â„Â¢ÃƒÂ¢Ã¢Â‚Â¬Ã‚Â