of your desire to make him participate in your vision,
did for quite a long time cause him to feel that he had been blind
to the miracle of that girl.


You were producing literature. You were alive. Your eyes were unlidded,
your ears were unstopped, to some part of the beauty and the strangeness
of the world; and a strong instinct within you forced you
to tell someone. It was not enough for you that you saw and heard.
Others had to see and hear. Others had to be wakened up.
And they were! It is quite possible--I am not quite sure--
that your faithful friend the very next day, or the next month,
looked at some other girl, and suddenly saw that she, too,
was miraculous! The influence of literature!


The makers of literature are those who have seen and felt
the miraculous interestingness of the universe. And the greatest
makers of literature are those whose vision has been the widest,
and whose feeling has been the most intense. Your own fragment of insight
was accidental, and perhaps temporary. *Their* lives are one long ecstasy
of denying that the world is a dull place. Is it nothing to you
to learn to understand that the world is not a dull place?
Is it nothing to you to be led out of the tunnel on to the hill-side,
to have all your senses quickened, to be invigorated
by the true savour of life, to feel your heart beating
under that correct necktie of yours? These makers of literature
render you their equals.