theory of writing was this:—"No good writer can ever be translated." He used to quote triumphantly from Shakespeare’s 130th. Sonnet.
“As any she belied with false compare.”
“How would you put that into French?” he asked.
He never talked about himself. He often talked of his affairs, his money, his little room in Paris, his meetings with odd characters, etc., but never of himself. He had wandered over a lot of Europe. He was silent about all that. Very rarely, and then by chance, when telling of the life in Aran, or of some strange man in the train or in the steamer, he revealed little things about himself:–
“They asked me to fiddle to them, so that they might dance.”
“Do you play, then?”
“I fiddle a little. I try to learn something different for them every time. The last time I learned to do conjuring tricks. They’d get tired of me if I didn’t bring something new. I’m
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