And cynical? Mercy!
When he stood up in a Front Room and Unfolded his MS., and swallowed the Peppermint Wafer and began to Bleat, no one in the World of Letters was safe.
He would wallop Dickens and jounce Kipling and even take a side-swipe at Luella Prentiss Budd, who was the Poetess Laureate for the Ward in which he lived.
Ever since his Stuff had been shot back by a Boston Editor with a Complimentary Note, he had billed himself as an Author and had been pointed out as such at more than one Chautauqua.
Consequently his Views on Recent Fiction carried much weight with the
Carries.
He loved to pile the Fagots around a Best Seller and burn it to a
Cinder, while the Girls past 30 years of Age sat in front of him and
Shuddered.
As for the Drama, he could spread a New York Success on the marble-top
Table and dissect it until nothing was left but the Motif, and then he
would heave that into the Waste Basket, thereby leaving the Stage in
America flat on its back.
And if you mentioned Georgie Cohan to him, the Foam would begin to fleck his Lips and he would go plumb Locoed.
After he had been sitting on the Fence for many years, booing those who tried to saw Wood, his Satellites began coaxing him to write something that would show up Charley Klein and Gus Thomas and all the other Four-Flushers who were raking in Royalties under False Pretences.
They knew he was a Genius, because nothing pleased him.