You are my comrade.

You know what of myself I have put into this thing that to others will be but an idle half-hour's reading.

Tell me it is good, my friend.

Put a little heart into me, I pray you." But the other, full of the lust of criticism, which is civilisation's substitute for cruelty, would answer more in frankness than in friendship.

Then he who had written would flush angrily, and scornful words would pass.
One evening, he read me a play he had written.