Description
And I have noticed that authors who are a trifle ashamed of these exercises in self-appreciation begin them with an apology and then go right ahead anyway. And perhaps we should. Writing is a long and lonesome business; back of the problems in thought and composition hover always the awful questions: Is this the page that shows the empty shell? Is it here and now they find me out? So, like the politician when the returns are in and the prize-fighter when his glove is raised, perhaps we should be allowed our little moment. Perhaps I can be allowed mine. It is possible, moreover, that the birth pangs of this book were a little livelier than most. I wrote this book during the summer and autumn of 1954. At the time I was engaged on the manuscript which eventually became The Affluent Society. Or, more precisely, after months of ineffective and frustrating labour which had produced a set of chapters so vapid in content and repulsive in style that I could not bear to read them, I was totally stalled.
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