For the artist _ought_ to be able to make material of his own sufferings, even while the suffering is at its height.

To what other end does he suffer?
In very deed, he is the only man whose misery finds justification in apparent result." "I am not an artist," sighed Julian.
"On the contrary, I firmly believe that you are.

And it makes me angry to see the impulse dying in you." "What am I to do ?" Julian cried, almost with a voice of anguish.

"I am so helpless, so hopelessly fettered! Release is impossible.

No words could express the desperate struggles I go through when I recognise how my life is being wasted and my powers, whatever they may be, numbed and crushed.