You have given them what they want, prostituting your art to do it.

That's what I have been doing all these years--giving people what they want.

For a price we cater to them--even as their tailors, and milliners, and barbers.

And never again will the world have a truly great art or literature until men like us--in the divine selfishness of their, calling--demand, first and last, that they, _themselves_, be satisfied by the work of their hands." Going to the easel, he rudely jerked aside the curtain.

Involuntarily, the painter went to stand by his side before the picture.
"Look at it!" cried the novelist.