«I never said it was!» said Arnold. «I don't draw direct from life.»
«Your wife thinks you do.»
«Oh that. Oh God.»
«Inquisitive chatter and cataloguing of things one's spotted isn't art.»
«Of course it isn't-«Vague romantic myth isn't art either. Art is imagination. Imagination changes, fuses. Without imagination you have stupid details on one side and empty dreams on the other.»
«Bradley, I know you-«Art isn't chat plus fantasy. Art comes out of endless restraint and silence.»
«If the silence is endless there isn't any art! It's people without creative gifts who say that more means worse!»
«One should only complete something when one feels one's bloody privileged to have it at all. Those who only do what's easy will never be rewarded by-«Nonsense. I write whether I feel like it or not. I complete things whether I think they're perfect or not. Anything else is hypocrisy. I have no muse. That's what being a professional writer is.»
«Then thank God I'm not one.»
«You're such an agonizer, Bradley. You romanticize art. You're a masochist about it, you want to suffer, you want to feel that your inability to create is continuously significant.»
«It is continuously significant.»
«Oh come, be humbler, let cheerfulness break in! I can't think why you worry so. Thinking of yourself as a 'writer' is part of your trouble. Why not just think of yourself as someone who very occasionally writes something, who may in the future write something? Why make a life drama out of it?»
«I don't think of myself as a writer, not like that. I know you do. You're all 'writer.' I don't see myself in that way. I think of myself as an artist, that is, as a dedicated person. And of course it's a life drama. Are you suggesting that I'm some sort of amateur?»
«No, no-«Because if you are-«Bradley, please let's not have this silly old quarrel again, I don't feel strong enough.»
«All right. Sorry. Sorry.»
«You get so worked up and flowery! You sound as if you were quoting something all the time!»
I felt a sizzling warmth in my coat pocket wherein I had thrust the folded manuscript of my review of Arnold's novel. Arnold Baffin's work was a congeries of amusing anecdotes loosely garbled into «racy stories» with the help of half-baked unmeditated symbolism. The dark powers of imagination were conspicuous by their absence. Arnold Baffin wrote too much, too fast. Arnold Baffin was really just a talented journalist.
«Let's start up our Sundays again,» said Arnold. «I so much enjoyed our talks. We must just keep out of those old rat runs. We're both like mechanical toys when certain subjects are mentioned, we go whirring off. Come to lunch next Sunday, why not?»
«I doubt if Rachel will want to see me next Sunday.»
«Why ever not?»
«Anyway I'm going abroad.»
«Of course, I'd forgotten. Where are you going to?»
«Italy. I haven't made detailed plans yet.»
