The moral turpitude of the boys of today appears to center in their failure to concentrate on any particular objective long enough to obtain their maximum results.
My failure during the first five or six years of my art training to get set in the right direction and the disappointment which it caused me drove me the more persistently into writing as an alternative.
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Critics? Don't talk to me of critics! You think some jackanapes journalist his soul eaten away by the maggots of jealousy and failure has anything worthwhile to say of art? I don't.