Мартин Иден

Chapter 30

           "Itwouldspoilmystyle,"washisanswer,inalow,monotonousvoice. "YouhavenoideahowI’veworkedforstyle." 

           "Butthosestoriettes,"sheargued. "Youcalledthemhack-work. Youwrotemanyofthem. Didn’ttheyspoilyourstyle?" 

           "No,thecasesaredifferent. Thestoriettesweregroundout,jaded,attheendofalongdayofapplicationtostyle. Butareporter’sworkisallhackfrommorningtillnight,istheoneparamountthingoflife. Anditisawhirlwindlife,thelifeofthemoment,withneitherpastnorfuture,andcertainlywithoutthoughtofanystylebutreportorialstyle,andthatcertainlyisnotliterature. Tobecomeareporternow,justasmystyleistakingform,crystallizing,wouldbetocommitliterarysuicide. Asitis,everystoriette,everywordofeverystoriette,wasaviolationofmyself,ofmyself-respect,ofmyrespectforbeauty. Itellyouitwassickening. Iwasguiltyofsin. AndIwassecretlygladwhenthemarketsfailed,evenifmyclothesdidgointopawn. Butthejoyofwritingthe‘Love-cycle’! Thecreativejoyinitsnoblestform! Thatwascompensationforeverything." 

           MartindidnotknowthatRuthwasunsympatheticconcerningthecreativejoy. Sheusedthephraseitwasonherlipshehadfirstheardit. Shehadreadaboutit,studiedaboutit,intheuniversityinthecourseofearningherBachelorshipofArts; butshewasnotoriginal,notcreative,andallmanifestationsofcultureonherpartwerebutharpingsoftheharpingsofothers. 

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