interest in the artist apart from his work. And there are, as you
said, those people who provide material for the artist. Now Edith's
poem 'To Atthis' proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is not an
artist. On the other hand I have often thought of her, as I thought
this evening, as presenting possibilities for poetic purposes. But the
people who can be material for art must have in them something
unconscious, something which they do not fully realise or understand.
Edith, in spite of what is called her impenetrable mask, presents
herself too well. I cannot use her; she uses herself too fully.
Partly for the same reason I think, she fails to be an artist: she does
not live at all upon instinct. The artist is part of him a drifter, at
the mercy of impressions, and another part of him allows this to happen
for the sake of making use of the unhappy creature. But in Edith the
division is merely the rational, the cold and detached part of the
artist, itself divided. Her material, her experience that is, is
already a mental product, already digested by reason. Hence Edith (I
only at this moment arrive at understanding) is really the most orderly
person in existence, and the most rational. Nothing ever happens to
her; everything that happens is her own doing."

"And hence also," continued Appleplex, catching up the thread, "Edith
is the least detached of all persons, since to be detached is to be
detached from one's self, to stand by and criticise coldly one's own
passions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is coaching the
combatant."

"Edith is not unhappy."

"She is dissatisfied, perhaps."