engineers:

As I crossed the swing-bridge of the docks at Garston (Liverpool)
the other day, and saw the tapering spars silhouetted against the
pale sky, and the zinc-coloured river with its vague Cheshire shores
dissolving in mist, it occurred to me that if an indulgent genie
were to appear and make me an offer I would cheerfully give up
writing for painting. As it is, I see things in pictures and I spend
more time in the Walker Gallery than in the library next door.

I've got about all I _can_ get out of books, and now I don't relish
them save as memories. The reason for my wish, I suppose, is that
character, not incident, is my _metier_. And you can _draw_
character, _paint_ character, but you can't very well blat about it,
can you?

I am afraid Balzac's job is too big for anybody nowadays. The worst
of writing men nowadays is their horrible ignorance of how people
live, of ordinary human possibilities.

A----. is always pitching into me for my insane ideas about "cheap
stuff." He says I'm on the wrong tack and I'll be a failure if I
don't do what the public wants. I said I didn't care a blue curse
what the public wanted, nor did I worry much if I never made a big
name. All I want is to do some fine and honourable work, to do it as
well as I possibly could, and there my responsibility ended.... To
hell with writing, I want _to feel_ and _see_!

I am laying in a gallon of ink and a couple of cwt. of paper, to the
amusement of the others, who imagine I am a merchant of some sort