The wish that I had to publish my works could not be traced to
distinct motives; it did not spring from a desire to gain money, nor
yet celebrity.

I was not particularly keen on fame while I lived, and I certainly
had no sentimental ideas of my name surviving me.

I cared little in fact whether my name ever reached the public,
provided only my works were known and read. The wish to give them
out was not a thing of motive, nor thought, nor will. It was the
fierce, instinctive impulse that accompanies all creative power, the
tremendous impetus towards production that is an integral part of
all conceptive capacity. The same driving necessity that compels a
writer in the middle of the night to rise and take his pen and
commit to paper some thought or thoughts that are racing about in
his brain, trying to find an outlet, that compels him to produce
them as far as he is able, this same urgent impulse forces him to
complete his manuscript, and when completed, to strain his utmost to
give it actual life in the thoughts and brains of the public.

The pressing want to produce is as wholly natural, as innate, as
independent of the individual's volition as the conceptive impulse
itself.

And it was thus with me.

I could not be said to wish to publish from this or that motive,
because of this, that, or the other. I was simply dominated by the
instinct to do so, which grew more and more urgent as it found no
gratification.