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author may be summed briefly as an almost uninterrupted series of
doubts； anxieties； and trepidations。 I see clearly that it is not
good to love anything immoderately in this world； but it has been
my misfortune to love immoderately everything on which I have set
my heart。 This is not good； I repeat … but where is the remedy？
The ancients were always in the habit of saying； 〃Practise
moderation；〃 but the ancients appear to have considered only one
portion of the subject。 It is very possible to practise moderation
in some things； in drink and the like … to restrain the appetites …
but can a man restrain the affections of his mind； and tell them；
so far you shall go； and no farther？ Alas； no！ for the mind is a
subtle principle； and cannot be confined。 The winds may be
imprisoned； Homer says that Odysseus carried certain winds in his
ship； confined in leathern bags； but Homer never speaks of
confining the affections。 It were but right that those who exhort
us against inordinate affections； and setting our hearts too much
upon the world and its vanities； would tell us how to avoid doing
so。
'I need scarcely tell you that no sooner did I become an author
than I gave myself up immoderately to my vocation。 It became my
idol； and； as a necessary consequence； it has proved a source of
misery and disquietude to me； instead of pleasure and blessing。 I
had trouble enough in writing my first work； and I was not long in
discovering that it was one thing to write a stirring and spirited
address to a set of county electors； and another widely different
to produce a work at all calculated to make an impression upon the
great world。 I felt； however； that I was in my proper sphere； and
by dint of unwearied diligence and exertion I succeeded in evolving
from the depths of my agitated breast a work which； though it did
not exactly please me； I thought would serve to make an experiment
upon the public； so I laid it before the public； and the reception
which it met with was far beyond my wildest expectations。 The
public were delighted with it； but what were my feelings？
Anything； alas！ but those of delight。 No sooner did the public
express its satisfaction at the result of my endeavours； than my
perverse imagination began to conceive a thousand chimerical
doubts； forthwith I sat down to analyse it； and my worst enemy； and
all people have their enemies； especially authors … my worst enemy
could not have discovered or sought to discover a tenth part of the
faults which I； the author and creator of the unfortunate
production； found or sought to find in it。 It has been said that
love makes us blind to the faults of the loved object … common love
does； perhaps … the love of a father to his child； or that of a
lover to his mistress； but not the inordinate love of an author to
his works； at least not the love which one like myself bears to his
works： to be brief； I discovered a thousand faults in my work；
which neither public nor critics discovered。 However； I was
beginning to get over this misery； and to forgive my work all its
imperfections； when … and I shake when I mention it … the same kind
of idea which perplexed me with regard to the hawks and the gypsy
pony rushed into my mind； and I forthwith commenced touching the
objects around me； in order to baffle the evil chance； as you call
it； it was neither more nor less than a doubt of the legality of my
claim to the thoughts； expressions； and situations contained in the
book； that is； to all that constituted the book。 How did I get
them？ How did they come into my mind？ Did I invent them？ Did
they originate with myself？ Are they my own； or are they some
other body's？ You see into what difficulty I had got； I won't
trouble you by relating all that I endured at that time； but will
merely say that after eating my own heart； as the Italians say； and
touching every object that came in my way for six months； I at
length flung my book； I mean the copy of it which I possessed； into
the fire； and began another。
'But it was all in vain； I laboured at this other； finished it； and
gave it to the world； and no sooner had I done so； than the same
thought was busy in my brain； poisoning all the pleasure which I
should otherwise have derived from my work。 How did I get all the
matter which composed it？ Out of my own mind； unquestionably； but
how did it come there … was it the indigenous growth of the mind？
And then I would sit down and ponder over the various scenes and
adventures in my book； endeavouring to ascertain how I came
originally to devise them； and by dint of reflecting I remembered
that to a single word in conversation； or some simple accident in a
street or on a road； I was indebted for some of the happiest
portions of my work； they were but tiny seeds； it is true； which in
the soil of my imagination had subsequently become stately trees；
but I reflected that without them no stately trees would have been
produced； and that； consequently； only a part in the merit of these
compositions which charmed the world … for the did charm the world
… was due to myself。 Thus； a dead fly was in my phial； poisoning
all the pleasure which I should otherwise have derived from the
result of my brain…sweat。 〃How hard！〃 I would exclaim； looking up
to the sky； 〃how hard！ I am like Virgil's sheep； bearing fleeces
not for themselves。〃 But； not to tire you； it fared with my second
work as it did with my first； I flung it aside； and； in order to
forget it； I began a third； on which I am now occupied； but the
difficulty of writing it is immense； my extreme desire to be
original sadly cramping the powers of my mind； my fastidiousness
being so great that I invariably reject whatever ideas I do not
think to be legitimately my own。 But there is one circumstance to
which I cannot help alluding here； as it serves to show what
miseries this love of originality must needs bring upon an author。
I am constantly discovering that； however original I may wish to
be； I am continually producing the same things which other people
say or write。 Whenever； after producing something which gives me
perfect satisfaction； and which has cost me perhaps days and nights
of brooding； I chance to take up a book for the sake of a little
relaxation； a book which I never saw before； I am sure to find in
it something more or less resembling some part of what I have been
just composing。 You will easily conceive the distress which then
comes over me； 'tis then that I am almost tempted to execrate the
chance which； by discovering my latent powers； induced me to adopt
a profession of such anxiety and misery。
'For some time past I have given up reading almost entirely； owing
to the dread which I entertain of lighting upon something similar
to what I myself have written。 I scarcely ever transgress without
having a