It must not be supposed that, in setting forth the memories of this
half-hour between the moment my uncle left my room till we met again at
dinner, I am losing sight of "Almayer's Folly." Having confessed that my
first novel was begun in idleness--a holiday task--I think I have also
given the impression that it was a much-delayed book. It was never
dismissed from my mind, even when the hope of ever finishing it was very
faint. Many things came in its way: daily duties, new impressions,
old memories. It was not the outcome of a need--the famous need of
self-expression which artists find in their search for motives.
The necessity which impelled me was a hidden, obscure necessity, a
completely masked and unaccountable phenomenon. Or perhaps some idle and
frivolous magician (there must be magicians in London) had cast a spell
over me through his parlour window as I explored the maze of streets
east and west in solitary leisurely walks without chart and compass.
Till I began to write that novel I had written nothing but letters, and
not very many of these. I never made a note of a fact, of an impression,
or of an anecdote in my life. The conception of a planned book was
entirely outside my mental range when I sat down to write; the ambition
of being an author had never turned up among those gracious imaginary
existences one creates fondly for oneself at times in the stillness and
immobility of a day-dream: yet it stands clear as the sun at noonday
that from the moment I had done blackening over the first manuscript
page of "Almayer's Folly" (it contained about two hundred words and this
proportion of words to a page has remained with me through the fifteen
years of my writing life), from the moment I had, in the simplicity of
my heart and the amazing ignorance of my mind, written that page the die
was cast. Never had Rubicon been more blindly forded without invocation
to the gods, without fear of men.

That morning I got up from my breakfast, pushing the chair back, and