anything outside of what I am describing, exists even. My only
thought is to drive along my pen fast enough, in obedience to the
strenuous impulse urging me. I do not 'make up,' as your phrase is,
anything. I simply put down on paper, as fast as I can, the thoughts
that are pouring into my brain, like the waves of a flood flowing
over it. I am whirled away on the stream myself; my identity is
lost, submerged. Now look here, I'll give you a cut and dried
instance which will make clear how it is that I offend the
prejudices, or the proprieties, or whatever you call it, in my
books; at least I imagine it is in this way: Suppose I have a death
scene to write. My MS. is waiting for that to complete it. I don't
say to myself beforehand, Now there shall be a bed with Tomkins
dying in it; there shall be Maria at the left-hand corner, and Jane
at the right. The wife and doctor shall be grouped artistically at
the foot. Tomkins shall make two speeches before he dies; no, three-
-three is more natural--uneven number. Now what shall Tomkins say?
Yes. Ah--hum--what the deuce shall I make him say? It must not be
too much like what a dying man would say, because the British public
is dead against realism. It must not either show any strong contempt
for religion; a little mild contempt, of course, goes down and is
fashionable, but I must not express it forcibly. He must not either
evince a disbelief in immortality--at least that's dangerous ground.
Some publishers will accept it and some won't.--Better leave it out.
Ah--hum--what shall Tomkins say? I have it! A retrospect of his past
life! And yet--No, stay! that won't do. Something that sounds like
something that might possibly be immoral might turn up in it, and
that would be fatal--damn the MS. utterly. Well, look here, Tomkins
has got to die, and I've got to finish the book, so I must get
something down. 'Darling Mabel, this parting is terrible, but still
I feel we shall meet in another world.' Now, is that safe? Has a