might have enabled you to divine what kind of a person I am in
the matter of love. I grow so hard to please as a literary
artist, that I am driven to despair. I shall end by not
writing another line."

"Happy," he cries, in a moment of discouragement at that patient labour,
which for him, certainly, was the condition of a great success--[33]

Happy those who have no doubts of themselves! who lengthen out,
as the pen runs on, all that flows forth from their brains. As
for me, I hesitate, I disappoint myself, turn round upon myself
in despite: my taste is augmented in proportion as my natural
vigour decreases, and I afflict my soul over some dubious word
out of all proportion to the pleasure I get from a whole page
of good writing. One would have to live two centuries to attain
a true idea of any matter whatever. What Buffon said is a big
blasphemy: genius is not long-continued patience. Still, there
is some truth in the statement, and more than people think,
especially as regards our own day. Art! art! art! bitter
deception! phantom that glows with light, only to lead one on
to destruction...

Again--

I am growing so peevish about my writing. I am like a man whose
ear is true but who plays falsely on the violin: his fingers
refuse to reproduce precisely those sounds of which he has the
inward sense. Then the tears come rolling down from the poor
scraper's eyes and the bow falls from his hand.