"What can it matter to me," he says, "whether people read my books or
not? It may matter to them--but I have too much money to want more, and
if the books have any stuff in them it will work by-and-by. I do not
know nor greatly care whether they are good or not. What opinion can any
sane man form about his own work? Some people must write stupid books
just as there must be junior ops and third class poll men. Why should I
complain of being among the mediocrities? If a man is not absolutely
below mediocrity let him be thankful--besides, the books will have to
stand by themselves some day, so the sooner they begin the better."
I spoke to his publisher about him not long since. "Mr Pontifex," he
said, "is a _homo unius libri_, but it doesn't do to tell him so."
I could see the publisher, who ought to know, had lost all faith in
Ernest's literary position, and looked upon him as a man whose failure
was all the more hopeless for the fact of his having once made a _coup_.
"He is in a very solitary position, Mr Overton," continued the publisher.
"He has formed no alliances, and has made enemies not only of the
religious world but of the literary and scientific brotherhood as well.
Pages:
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697