You may not like it, but
we shall be watching you from one of the windows, and telling
each other that you do. In any case, we have the pleasure of
looking at it ourselves, and feeling that we are contributing
something to London, whether for better or for worse. We are part
of a street now, and can take pride in that street. Before, we
were only part of a big unmanageable building. It is a solemn
thought that I have got this house for (apparently) eighty-seven
years. One never knows, and it may be that by the end of that
time I shall be meditating an article on the advantages of living
in a flat. A flat, I shall say, is so convenient.
The Ideal Author
Samuel Butler made a habit (and urged it upon every young writer)
of carrying a notebook about with him. The most profitable ideas,
he felt, do not come from much seeking, but rise unbidden in the
mind, and if they are not put down at once on paper, they may be
lost for ever. But with a notebook in the pocket you are safe; no
thought is too fleeting to escape you. Thus, if an inspiration
for a five-thousand word story comes suddenly to you during the
dessert, you murmur an apology to your neighbour, whip out your
pocket-book, and jot down a few rough notes. "Hero choked peach-
stone eve marriage Lady Honoria. Pchtree planted by jltd frst
love. Ironyofthings. Tragic." Next morning you extract your
notebook from its white waistcoat, and prepare to develop your
theme (if legible) a little more fully.
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