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275 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1917


What has happened? Simply that five people have already approached me to ask what I meant by writing the piece of fiction I have just published, what I intended to say, and what bearing did it have. Idiots, idiots, and thrice idiots! They’re worse than children who break dolls to find out what’s inside... They believe no-one could write except to prove something, or defend or attack some proposition, or from an ulterior motive...
(‘The Madness of Doctor Montarco’.)
I have been reading his work since he has been here and I realise that one of their mistakes was to take him for a man of ideas, a writer of ideas, when fundamentally he is no such thing. His ideas were a point of departure, mere raw material, and had as much importance in his writing as earth used by Velasquez in making the pigments had to do with his painting, or as the type of stone Michelangelo used had to do with his Moses... At best, ideas are no more than raw material, as I’ve already said, for works of art, or for philosophy, or for polemics.