And so you go and come, you go and come, and we learn to count on
your regular appearance every four weeks as we would on any stated
gesture of the zodiac. You come eager to pick up the threads of what
has been happening in this our town, what books people are talking
about, what is the latest jape, and what (your tastes being so
catholic!) "Percy and Ferdie" are up to. And you, in turn, bring
news of what they are saying in Sauchiehall Street or Fleet Street,
and what books are making a stir on the other side. You take copies
of American books that catch your fancy and pass them on to British
reviewers, always at your quixotic task of trying to make each side
appreciate the other's humours. For, though we promised not to give
you away too personally, you are not only the sea captain but the
man of letters, too, eminent in that field in your own right.
There must be some valid reason why so many good writers, and
several who have some claim on the word "great," have been bred of
the sea. Great writing comes from great stress of mind--which even a
journalist may suffer--but it also requires strictness of seclusion
and isolation. Surely, on the small and decently regimented island
of a ship a man's mind must turn inward. Surrounded by all that
barren beauty of sky and sea, so lovely, and yet so meaningless to
the mind, the doomed business of humanity must seem all the more
precious and deserving of tenderness.
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