He saw so well the romance of that dun band that had cast remorse behind; that had no return, no future, that spread desolation desolately.

This was merely a review article--a thing that in England would have been unreadable; the narrative of a nomad of some genius.

I could never have written like that--I should have spoilt it somehow.

It set me tingling with desire, with the desire that transcends the sexual; the desire for the fine phrase, for the right word--for all the other intangibles.

And I had been wasting all this time; had been writing my inanities.