"Dr. Medjora, you seem to be a logician, and I should think that you might be a successful author yourself."
"I might be, but I am not. I could be, only I do not choose to be. But we are speaking of yourself. If you wish to be a writer, I presume that you have written something. Does it satisfy you; that is to say, do you consider that it is as excellent as it need be?"
"I have done a little writing. While thinking, this week, about my future, somehow there came to me a longing to write. I did so, and I have been over my little sketch so many times, that I cannot see wherein it is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited it may sound, that I am satisfied with it."
"That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied with his own work he has already reached the end of his abilities. It is only continual dissatisfaction with our efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to attain better things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what you have written. You have it with you, I suppose?"
Leon was much embarrassed. He wished that he could say no, but the composition was in his pocket. So he drew it out and handed it to Dr. Medjora, without saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and then said encouragingly:
"There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. Brevity."
"Ah, Doctor!" said Leon, eagerly. "That is what I have aimed at. I have but a single idea to expound, and I have endeavored to clothe it in as few words as possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to make every word count. Please read it with that view uppermost."
The Doctor nodded assent, and then read the little story, which was as follows:
IMMORTALITY.
I am dead!