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    1. Camp Starts In: 228 Days They say. What do they say? Let them say, I quoted.


      This website template has been designed by Free Website Templates for you, for free. You can replace all this text with your own text. Now, I have not the remotest idea what Shaw thinks of Wells in these days, yet I would give a good deal to know. But sixteen years ago the older man had for the younger an almost reverential admiration. At the time of my visit to Shaw one of Wells books was appearing serially in, I think, The Fortnightly Review. Wells was busy looking into the future, and the future that he saw seemed, in some respects, so disagreeable yet so likely that Shaw was dismayed at the prospect. 17A great man, Wells, said Shaw; do you know anything about him?

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar Augustus John used to come sometimes, and I remember chatting with P. G. Konody about Byzantine architecture, about which I think I know something. But one did not go to the Crab Tree for serious conversation. It was the diversion of excitement we all sought....

      • Pellentesque nunasidp adipiscing sollicitudin dolor id sagittis. Fortunately, I came in just in time to stop your stuff. Youd better, I think, confine yourself exclusively to your dramatic criticism.

      • Donec sit amet felis a nibh ornare malesuada. I need scarcely say that Houghton was, so far as his plays were concerned, an industrious man of business. When the real artist has finished a work, he ceases to take interest in it; but, with Houghton, when a play was completed his interest in it immediately intensified. He sent his plays everywhere: to the provinces, to London, to America, to agents. As soon as a play came back, returned with thanks, out it went again by the next post. And he pulled stringsoh! ever so gently, but he pulled them.

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. Did I say Tennysons In Memoriam? I really meant 91Shelleys Revolt of Islam. The fourth dimension is played out. Its done with. It was true so far as it went, but how far did it go?

      • Quisque in purus nec purus feugiat consectetur. But romance? Why is Fleet Street romantic? Well, as I have already said, it is because so many journalists themselves are romantic.... But I wonder if that really is the reason, and as I wonder I begin to think that though it is true one meets adventurous, talented and original people by the score in newspaper offices, yet, after all, it is not they who make journalism seem full of savour, of rich delight, of unexpectedness and excitement, of high romance. No; it is writing itself that is romantic: mere words and the colour and music of words; the smell of printers ink; the wet feel of a paper fresh from the press; the sounds of telephone bells and of machinery; the joy of expressing oneself; the lovely, great joy of signing ones name to an article and knowing that in twenty-four hours it will have been read or glanced at by perhaps half-a-million people.... But it seems to me as I write that I am utterly failing to communicate to you who read the romantic nature of journalism. To you it is, perhaps, merely a slipshod profession, a profession in which there is something sordid and vulgar and as unromantic as Monday morning. To me a man who writes with distinction is the most interesting creature in the world: I 110cannot know too much about him; I can never tire of his talk. Actors bore me. So do politicians, lawyers, men of science, those who are professionally religious, doctors, musicians. But writers and financiersespecially Jewish financiersare to me full of subtlety; their souls are elusive, and their minds are cunning past all reckoning. It is frequently said that the art of writing is possessed by most people. The art of writing correctly may be, but the correct writer is frequently not a writer at all, for he cannot compel people to read him. A writer without readers is not a writer; he is simply a man who murmurs to himself very laboriously. But the writer who can claim thousands of readersI mean even such writers as Mr Charles Garvice and the lady who invented The Rosaryare in essentials more highly endowed with the true writers gifts than many mandarins who live cloistered in Oxford and Cambridge. And I say this in spite of the fact that I have never been able to read more than ten consecutive pages of any book of Mr Garvices that I have picked up, and that The Rosary seems to me a story of such amazing flapdoodleism that

      • Fusce et ipsum dolor lorem ante, at sollicitudin libero. Going to see Hughes? I asked.

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. So I hung on in Manchester, writing musical criticism for The Manchester Courier and contributing occasional articles and verses to The Academy, The Contemporary Review, The Cornhill, The English Review, The Musical Times, and many other magazines, and there is scarcely a London daily of repute for which at one time or another I did not write. But still I could find no opening in Fleet Street. The truth is, there is no regular means of finding openings in Fleet Street. If an editor is in want of a dramatic critic, a musical critic, a leader writer, or a descriptive reporter, he never advertises for one. He always knows someone who knows somebody else who is just the man for the job.

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar. We paced up and down the terrace, his eyes fixed on the ground. At length:

      • 11/10/2011

        This is just a place holder, so you can see what the site would look like. But more egregious than the vanity of actors is the vanity of fashionable preachers. To them notoriety is the very breath of their nostrils. They have no agents, so they are compelled to advertise themselves without camouflage. And they do it shamelessly. I will not mention names, but at least half the fashionable preachers in London, no matter what their denomination, are guilty of constant and most resourceful self-advertisement. A little, a very little, jesuitical reasoning is sufficient to satisfy their consciences that this is done, not out of vanity, but from a desire to bring a still larger congregation to the fount of wisdom itself.... They are the fount of wisdom.

      • 11/19/2011

        Praesent quis nisl in velit imper diet suscipit a id quam. Yes; Tennysons In Memoriam does help, doesnt it?

      • 11/19/2011

        Nullam vulputate elementum consequat. Fusce leo felis, bibendum. The men of Fleet Street are the best fellows in the world. Roughly, they may be divided into two classes: those who go steady, with their eye always on the main chance, with every faculty strained to enable them to get on in the world; and those happy-go-lucky people who make money easily and spend it recklessly, so excited by life that they cannot pause to contemplate life, so happy in their labour and in their play that they cannot conceive a day may come when work will be irksome and playing a half-forgotten dream. There are, of course, other divisions into which journalists may be separated. There is, for example, the devoted band of brilliant young men who work for Orage in The New Agea paper that cannot, I am sure, pay high rates. (What those rates are I do not know, for I could never induce Orage to print a single thing I wrote for him.) Then there are the hangers-on of journalism: people who review books in the time spared from their labours as university professors, struggling barristers, parish priests and so on. Many of these people, led by vanity or some other concealed motive, offer to work without payment.

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