An art that is
not hidebound by the deadening influences of a decadent
Europe, or the result of intellectual theories evolved by
those whose only pleasure in existence is to create laws for
others to obey ... an art, let us say, that springs out of
the emotional depths of creative spirit, courageous and
unafraid of rotting power, or limited scope ... an art whose
purpose is flaming beauty of creation and nothing
else.--HAROLD HERSEY, in _The Quill_ (Greenwich
Village).
Someone said today to the author of this book:
"How can you write about the Village? You don't live here. Live here a
few years and then perhaps you'll have something to say!"
It is by way of answer that the following little tale is quoted; it is
an old tale but, after a fashion, it seems to fit.
Once upon a time an explorer discovered a country and set about to
write a book concerning it. Then the people of the country became
somewhat indignant and asked:
"Why should a stranger, who has scarcely learned his way about in our
land, attempt to describe it? We, who have lived in it and know it,
will write its chronicles ourselves.
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