"Impossible! I shall never be a poet, Jerry."
"Well, have you ever thought o' writin' a nov-el?"
"Never!"
"Well, what about it?"
"Impossible! Of what should I write?"
"Why, about HER—Anna, for sure, your Diana as would ha' made a better goddess than the real one, I reckon."
"Why, yes," said I, lifting my head, "I might do that, no matter how badly. To write of her would be better than to talk of her. To try to tell all her loveliness, her sweet, strong, virginal soul, her wisdom, her purity, her brave independence, to picture all this in words, no matter how inadequate, I shall see her with the eyes of Memory; she will be back with me in spirit…. A book! Jerry, O Jeremy, this is an excellent thought…. to see her again … to talk with her by means of pen and ink!"
In my eagerness I started up to my feet; then, the hot fit, passing, gave place to the cold, and Doubt leapt to seize me. "But I've never tried to write a book! Who am I to write a book?"
"Lord, don't be down-hearted afore you try, lad!" admonished the Tinker, for I had spoken this doubt aloud. "There's times in all writers' lives when they haven't writ a line, yet books are written all the same. Books ain't made, lad; they happen and they happen because a cove has an eye to see a little way beneath the surface o' things and an ear as can hear voices in the wind, an' a mind as discovers sum'mat in everything to wonder at. So he goes on lookin' an' listenin' an' wonderin' till one day out it has to come—an' there's your book. Now you're full up o' love, ain't you?"
"Yes, Jerry."