casualties; in July scars formed; this is August, and the thing I call a creative urge,—at any rate the thing that sent me down to the passport bureau,—may merely be an itch caused by the scars, though I dare hope it goes deeper, something in my blood. You on your Californian hilltop, you who are omniscient, tell me by return post whether all creative desire is diagnosable as an itch; if so, it's frightful to think how many future blows I've got to steel myself against and how many scars I've got to scratch, for so help me God I'm going to create something, if it's only Christmas cards, and go on doing it till I'm a decrepit old man. But maybe you arrive at a point where you scratch from sheer habit. Even Sargent's late things—"
Damn! Divine Service was over, and the faithful were coming out on deck in a thin stream. Grover cursed because one of the faithful occupied the deckchair next his: a clothey old woman who was forever dropping things,—her book, her shawl, her other sweater, her orange, the end of her rug. She lowered herself cautiously into her chair and landed with a thump. "My rheumatism," she explained, and reached for a cup of bouillon from the tray which a patient steward was extending. "I see you're a writer," she said.
"Only letters," Grover replied. If she asked him what he was going to do for a living he would have his chair moved to the hurricane deck. Hurricanes were merciful.
