“I have done no more work,” he confessed.
“None?”
“None.”
“Didn’t you get my letter. I addressed it to Colombo.”
“Yes, I got that. I took it up to Kandi with me to read. I made wonderful resolutions that night.”
“And haven’t kept them?”
“No.”
“John, you are hopeless.”
He defended himself as best he could. “I can’t help it,” he said; “I have tried to write and I have tried to read. I have read spasmodically. But it seems useless. I started this naval business too early. My education has been a naval education, and—what is more important—my life is a naval life. If you can’t be alone you can’t think; if you can’t think you are a fool to try to write. Besides, to write you must read and read and read. You must see life from a thousand angles—not from one professional standpoint. And you must feel that, for better or for worse, you are master of yourself—not necessarily of your actions, but of your thinking.”
“But you have written in these very circumstances. Why can’t you write more?”