That has always infuriated me. I have written about it letters to
The Times that The Times never printed; those that I wrote to the
Paris edition of the New York Herald were always printed, but
they never seemed to satisfy me when I saw them. Well, that was
a sort of frenzy with me.
It was a frenzy that now I can hardly realize. I can understand it
intellectually. You see, in those days I was interested in people
with "hearts." There was Florence, there was Edward
Ashburnham--or, perhaps, it was Leonora that I was more
interested in. I don't mean in the way of love. But, you see, we
were both of the. same profession--at any rate as I saw it. And the
profession was that of keeping heart patients alive.
You have no idea how engrossing such a profession may become.
Just as the blacksmith says: "By hammer and hand all Art doth
stand," just as the baker thinks that all the solar system revolves
around his morning delivery of rolls, as the postmaster-general
believes that he alone is the preserver of society--and surely,
surely, these delusions are necessary to keep us going--so did I
and, as I believed, Leonora, imagine that the whole world ought to
be arranged so as to ensure the keeping alive of heart patients.
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