If He Were Insane, However, His Was

Oft A Little Morning Rain Foretells A Pleasant Day.

The Writer Who Possesses The Creative Gift Owns Something Of Which He Is Not Always Master - Something That, At Times, Strangely Wills And Works For Itself.

Writers Cannot Choose Their Own Mood: With Them It Is Not Always Hide-tide, Nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.

For A Long Time The Fear Of Seeming Singular Scared Me Away; But By Degrees, As People Became Accustomed To Me And My Habits, And To Such Shadows Of Peculiarity As Were Engrained In My Nature - Shades, Certainly Not Striking Enough To Interest, And Perhaps Not Prominent Enough To Offend, But Born In And With Me, And No More To Be Parted With Than My Identity - But Slow Degrees I Became A Frequenter Of This Straight Narrow Path.

I Looked, And Had An Acute Pleasure In Looking,--a Precious Yet Poignant Pleasure; Pure Gold, With A Steely Point Of Agony: A Pleasure Like What The Thirst-perishing Man Might Feel Who Knows The Well To Which He Has Crept Is Poisoned, Yet Stoops And Drinks Divine Draughts Nevertheless.