Another novel read, another history finished, another biography turned
over--enough of them. I am done with them. I prefer to empty another
pitcher. Give me my sangaree and my own thoughts in preference to their
twaddle. And why twaddle? Well, because each and all of them have a
hero--a good man, or a great man, or a successful man, or a man in love
with a woman, or a man in love with himself--whereas I am none of them,
and I want to hear about myself. I want to hear about a failure. A man
who sadly admits that he is a failure. These, then, are the Memoirs of
a Failure.
Certainly there have been more failures than heroes, but fiction
delights to mock the failures merely to set off the hero. Surely there
have been more obscure men than famous men, but history records chiefly
the attainments of the leaders. Whereas, the unknown soldier, the
insignificant clerk, the patient craftsman, the underpaid writer and
teacher--these humble workers had their story, perhaps more touching
and perhaps less callous than the career of the noted artist, the
famous statesman, the great general.
Who shall write the Epic of Unsuccess--the song of the Vast Obscure?
Did you want to paint?
And have you found that you could not? I have.
Did you try to preach, and lose conviction?
Yes, catechiser.
Did you strive to write and find that you had nothing to say?