The other day, a friend of mine, who professes all the intimacy of a bad
conscience with many of my thoughts and convictions, came in with a bulky
book under his arm, and said, “I see by a guilty look in your eye that
you are meaning to write about spring.”
“I am not,” I retorted, “and if I were, it would be because none of the
new things have been said yet about spring, and because spring is never
an old story, any more than youth or love.”
“I have heard something like that before,” said my friend, “and I
understand. The simple truth of the matter is that this is the fag-end
of the season, and you have run low in your subjects. Now take my advice
and don’t write about spring; it will make everybody hate you, and will
do no good. Write about advertising.” He tapped the book under his arm
significantly. “Here is a theme for you.”