category:Action adventure


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    365体育注册"And I'm one of the fools," broke in Campbell. "Oh, I know. But don't think there's personal feeling in this. There might have been ten years ago. I worried then a terrible deal about whether I were an artist or no; I cared what you people said, read your reviews and was damnably puzzled by the different decisions you gave. And then suddenly I said to myself: 'Why shouldn't I have some fun? Life's short. I'm not a great artist, and never shall be. I'll write to please myself.' And I did. And I've been happy ever since. You're just as divided about me as you used to be. And just as divided about one another. The only difference is that you still worry about one another and fight and scratch, and I bow to your superior judgment—and enjoy myself. I haven't much of an intellect, I'm not a good critic, but I'm nearer real life than you are, any of you. What you people are doing is not separating the sheep from the goats as you think you are—none of you are decided as to who the sheep really are—but you are simply separating Life from Art. We're not an artistic nation—nothing will ever make us one. We've provided some of the greatest artists the world has ever seen because of our vitality and our independence of cliques. How much about Art did Richardson and Fielding, Scott and Jane Austen, Thackeray and Dickens, Trollope and Hardy consciously know? When has Hardy ever written one single statement about Art outside his own prefaces, and in them he talks simply of his own books. But these men knew about life. Fielding could tell you what the inside of a debtor's prison is like, and Scott could plant trees, and Thack[Pg 169]eray was no mean judge of a shady crowd at a foreign watering-place, and Hardy knew all about milking a cow. What do you people know about anything save literary values and over them you squabble all the while. There aren't any literary values until Time has spoken. But there is such a thing as responding to the beauty in something that you've seen or read and telling others that you've enjoyed it—and there are more things in this world to enjoy—even in the mess that it's in at this moment—than any of you people realize."


    "He's got to make his bread and butter," said Miss Cass grimly.
    His voice shook. He turned away from her.
    He came across to her, knelt down beside her, put his hands against her neck.


    1."Off Jermyn Street."
    2.He went upstairs. On the first landing he met Millie. They talked in whispers.
    3.April 17.—I've had thorough "glooms" to-day. I'm writing this in bed whither I went as early as nine o'clock, Mary being out at a party and the sitting-room looking grizzly. I feel better already. But a visit to mother always sends me into the depths. It is terrible to me to see her lying there like a[Pg 100] dead woman, staring in front of her, unable to speak, unable to move. Extraordinary woman that she is! Even now she won't see Katherine although Katherine tries again and again.
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