train in order to burn it out of
his body.
She had liked it. She said she
loved it. She loved anything
that was exciting, that involved
a change of scene, where there
were new people and where
things were pleasant. And he
had felt the illusion of
returning strength of will to
work. Now if this was how it
ended, and he knew it was, he
must not turn like some snake
biting itself because its back
was broken. It wasn't this
woman's fault. If it had not
been she it would have been
another. If he lived by a lie he
should try to die by it. He
heard a shot beyond the hill.
She shot very well this good,
this rich bitch, this kindly
caretaker and destroyer of his
talent. Nonsense. He had
destroyed his talent himself.
Why should he blame this
woman because she kept him
well? He had destroyed his
talent by not using it, by
betrayals of himself and what
he believed in, by drinking so
much that he blunted the edge
of his perceptions, by laziness,
by sloth, and by snobbery, by
pride and by prejudice, by
hook and by crook. What was
this? A catalogue of old books?
What was his talent anyway? It
was a talent all right but
instead of using it, he had
traded on it. It was never what
he had done, but always what
he could do. And he had
chosen to make his living with
something else instead of a pen
or a pencil. It was strange, too,
wasn't it, that when he fell in
love with another woman, that
woman should always have
more money than the last one?
But when he no longer was in
love, when he was only lying,
as to this woman, now, who
had the most money of all, who
had all the money there was,
who had had a husband and
children, who had taken lovers
and been dissatisfied with
them, and who loved him
dearly as a writer, as a man, as
a companion and as a proud
possession; it was strange that
when he did not love her at all
and was lying, that he should
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