The Music of Hindostan c17.2

c17.2

He will put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes and forget to mention the fact, but he may weep at the breaking of a pencil point. And as his poems come he knows not whence, so he is content to let them fly he knows not whither. You ask for yesterday's masterpiece, and it is not to be found. ‘Did I write that,’ he asks with Shakespearian negligence, ‘and was it really good? Never mind, I'll do you another.’