Mine is.
So I came away then, because he was looking tired. Overwork, I reckon;
I never do that; I have seen the evil effects of it. My mother
was always afraid I would overwork myself, but I never did.
Dear madam, you see how it would happen if I went there. He would
ask me those questions, and I would try to answer them to suit him,
and he would hunt me here and there and yonder and get me embarrassed
more and more all the time, and at last he would look tired on
account of overwork, and there it would end and nothing done.
I wish I could be useful to you, but, you see, they do not
care for uncles or any of those things; it doesn't move them,
it doesn't have the least effect, they don't care for anything
but the literature itself, and they as good as despise influence.
But they do care for books, and are eager to get them and examine them,
no matter whence they come, nor from whose pen. If you will send
yours to a publisher--any publisher--he will certainly examine it,
I can assure you of that.
A TELEPHONIC CONVERSATION
Consider that a conversation by telephone--when you are simply siting
by and not taking any part in that conversation--is one of the solemnest
curiosities of modern life. Yesterday I was writing a deep article
on a sublime philosophical subject while such a conversation was
going on in the room. I notice that one can always write best when
somebody is talking through a telephone close by.
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