I think there's something quite interesting about the almost tragic quality of a lot of overwrought prose because it has a much more self-conscious awareness of its own failure to touch the real.
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.
