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I enjoy working when I can, I look upon it with other eyes. Whether I work or
     whether I don’t has come to assume less and less importance. I have had here some of the most
     bitter experiences of my life; I have also known here some of the most exalted moments. Sweet
     or bitter, I am now convinced that all experience is enriching and rewarding. Above all,
     instructive.
    In these past ten years I have talked to hundreds and hundreds of individuals
     from all walks of life. Most callers, it seems to me, come to unload their problems.
     Occasionally I succeed in handing a man back his problems—and saddling him with a few new
     ones, weightier, knottier ones than he brought.
    Many who come to pay me a visit make me the recipient of gifts, all sorts of
     gifts, from money to books, food, drink, clothing, even postage stamps. In return I can only
     offer the gift of myself. But all this is of little moment. What intrigues me is that, living
     in a nominally isolated spot, the world is closer to my door than if I were in the thick of
     it. It is not necessary for me to read the daily paper nor listen in on the news broadcasts.
     Whatever I need to know about conditions “out there” is brought to me, combed and sifted, in
     person.
    And how very much the same it all is! Why drag one’s carcass around?
“Stay
     put and watch the world go round!”
That’s what I frequently tell myself.
    Here I feel compelled to touch on a matter which, though highly personal, may
     nevertheless be of interest to “all and sundry.” As a writer of some repute—perhaps
dubious
repute—I naturally numberamong my callers many young
     or would-be writers. When I learn of their aims and purpose, in choosing authorship, I am
     obliged to put myself the most scathing questions. In what way, I ask myself, do I really
     differ from these fledglings? What have I gained, turning out one book after another, that
     they lack? And why should I encourage them when all they do is augment my own honest
     doubts?
    To elucidate … all these young men (and women), as I once did myself, desire
     nothing more, nothing better, than to write what they wish to write and to be read by as many
     people as possible. They want to express themselves, they say. Very good. (“And what’s to
     hinder?” say I to myself.) After they have expressed themselves, they want to be recognized
     and commended for their efforts.
Naturally
. (“Who’s to prevent it?”) And being
     recognized, being accepted, they want to enjoy the fruits of their labor. (“Human,
     all-too-human.”)
But—
and here is the question, the vital one: Do you, my dear young
     enthusiasts, have any idea what it means when you say “the fruits of one’s labor”? Have you
     ever heard of “bitter fruit”? Do you not know that with recognition, or “success,” if you want
     to call it that, come all the evils in creation? Do you realize that, in accomplishing your
     purpose, you will never be permitted to reap the reward you dream of? No doubt you picture to
     yourself a quiet home in the country, a loving wife who understands you, and a bevy of happy,
     contented children. You visualize yourself turning out masterpiece after masterpiece in a
     setting where all runs like clockwork.
    What a deception you are in for! What plagues and scourges lie in wait for
     you! Give us your mightiest thoughts, shake the world to its foundations—but do not hope to
     escape your Calvary! Once you have launched your creations, be certain they will be turned
     against you. You will be unique if you are not overwhelmed and engulfed by monsters of your
     own breeding. The day is sure to come when you will look upon the world as if it had never
     received the impact of a single uplifting thought. You will beterrified
     and bewildered to see how thoroughly awry everything has gone, how utterly you and those you
     emulated have been misunderstood. The world you unwittingly helped to make will claim you, not