There were times when, privately practising my writings
about life, I knew the bitter side of my fortune. When I failed again and again
to reproduce life in some satisfactory and perfect form, I was the more
imprisoned, for all my carefree living, within my craving for this
satisfaction. Sometimes, in my impotence and need I secreted a venom which
infected all my life for days on end and which spurted out indiscriminately on
Skinny or on anyone who crossed my path.
‘You aren’t bound by anyone,’ George said. ‘You come and go
as you please. Something always turns up for you. You’re free, and you don’t
know your luck.’
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