'I am reading Carlyle as usual. What a man! ... When I read men like C., I pant along happily at their skirts, thinking myself safe and then, not even knowing I'm there, [they] cuff me with a great fist of a phrase that sends me sprawling ... Reading C. one feels that [italics] nothing [end italics] is worth writing, least of all own tiny things. No one ever had less [italics] message [end italics] than I have and that my duty in times like these is hardly to 'chirrup' on a quiet bough...'