Whenever he got
hold of a book of Havelock Ellis's he became blind and livid with rage.
In the period when I was a free lance reviewer, I used to review
generally only books that I was particularly interested in, books on
subjects with which I was familiar, books by authors whom I knew all
about. And in writing my reviews I used to wait now and then for an
idea. Those were happy, innocent, amateur days. That is: when my
thoughts got stalled I would throw myself on a couch for a bit, or I
would look out at my window, or I took a turn about Gramercy Park for a
breath of air. Reviews sometimes had to be in by the following day,
or, so my editor would declare to me with much vigour over the
telephone, the paper would go to smash; and then he would hold them in
type for three weeks. But they rarely had to be done within a couple
of hours or less.
In the course of time I got down to brass tacks; I took a staff
position, a desk job. It was up to me to review everything going, in a
steady ceaseless grind. I began work at half past nine in the morning.
When I was commuting I began earlier, taking up a book on the train.
Between nine thirty and a quarter to eleven I did a book, say, on the
extermination of the house-fly; from then until lunch time, three
hundred words on a very pleasant novel called, for instance, "Roast
Beef, Medium"; in the afternoon, three-quarters of a column on a
"History of the American Negro"; winding up the day, perhaps, with a
lively article about a popular book on "Submarine Diving and Light
Houses"; and taking home at night the "Note Books of Samuel Butler.
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