Everything he saw, he saw through the clear
white light. There were no mists to cloud his vision, there was no halo
of idealism hovering around the objects upon which his eyes rested. It
was the truth he saw, and nothing beyond it. He compared his own work
with work of a similar character written by well-known men, and his
understanding became more complete. He found in their work a touch of
personality, a shade of self-consciousness about the description of even
the most ordinary things. The individuality of the writer and his
subject were always blended. In his own work, subject alone counted.
He had never learned any of the tricks of writing. His prose consisted
of the simple use of simple words. His mind was empty of all
inheritance of acquired knowledge. He had no preconceived ideals,
towards the realizations of which he should bend the things he saw. He
was simply a prophet of absolute truth. If he had found in those days a
literary godfather, he would, without doubt, have been presented to the
world as a genius.
Then, with money in his pocket, clad once more in decent apparel, he
made one more effort to do his duty. He sent for Ellen and little
Alfred to come up and see him. He sent them a little extra money, and
he wrote as kindly as possible.
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