within reasonable limits, a pleasure.
The artist is, said Goethe
, the only man who lives with unconcealed aims; and he also loves even to mix his colors and stretch his canvas.
, the painter, says in his diary that when he gets a large canvas up, and goes to work on a new historical picture, kings are not his superiors.
Every writer feels the same in entering on a new work, large or small; and if he is healthy and reasonable the pleasure holds out to the end, though perhaps with some intermittent periods of fatigue and discouragement.
The old German professor in Longfellow
's “Hyperion” hopes to die with a proof-sheet in his hand.
It is unreasonable for any of us to expect that we shall be spoiled children and not have our share in the cares and vexations of men. If our lives are sound, these matters are secondary to the fact that we are doing, in some way or other, good and useful work.
If it is not well for us to live only on the very finest wheat, we may well accept serenely a due proportion of wholesome bran.
Above all, let us remember that life is short, that there are but twenty-four hours in the day, and that we cannot combine everything.
To live greatly in society we must forego work in the studio or the library; to live