You know what it’s like; we artists are condemned to eternally suffer for our art. Those without our gift, our drive, cannot comprehend what impels us forward and mutter darkly into their small beer.
But here is a sad example to let you know what I mean. I was with friends one night at Misanthropes Hall. Purely at table with friends and acquaintances. We’d dined in a small way but perhaps taken more wine that the occasion called for. Still it was a pleasant evening and one young chap was scribbling down our witty asides as they fell from our lips, which put us all on our mettle. How was I to know it was one of the lower forms of life? It was Tar Yurgon. No artist but a freelance journalist, the very dregs of literary endeavour.
And then Trane Forsgill started cavilling about whether it was his turn…
View original post 1,605 more words