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315 pages
First published January 1, 1967
Every minute, every chance word and glance, every thought – profound or flippant – the imperceptible beat of the human heart, and, by the same token, the fluff dropping from the poplar, the starlight gleaming in a pool – all are grains of gold dust. Over the years, we writers subconsciously collect millions of these tiny grains and keep them stored away until they form a mould out of which we shape our own particular golden rose – a story, novel, or poem. From these precious particles a stream of literature is born.
From our childhood we inherit the great gift of being fascinated by the world around us. He who retains this gift in later life is sure to become a poet or a writer, the difference between the two in the final analysis being not so great. Always to be finding novelty in everything is splendid soil for art to thrive and mature.
Inspiration comes to us like a sunny summer morning which had cast off the mists of a quiet night. It breathes tenderly into our face a cool, restorative breath.
Inspiration is like first love when the heart beats loudly in anticipation of joyful meetings, of loving looks and smiles and words unsaid. Delicately and unerringly our mental state is tuned like some magic musical instrument and it echoes even the most deeply hidden sounds of life.